


mala suledin nadas (now you must endure)

by TransSilver



Series: Inquisition Fics/Fix-its [1]
Category: Dragon Age II, Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: (only related to blood magic), (sort of), Abandonment, Alexithymia, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Anders (Dragon Age) Positive, Anxiety, Attempt at Humor, Autistic Cassandra, Autistic Cole, Autistic Merrill, Autistic Sera, Autistic Solas, BAMF Merrill (Dragon Age), Bisexual Isabela, Bisexual Merrill, Blood Magic (Dragon Age), Blood and Injury, Blue Hawke (Dragon Age), Canonical Character Death, Chantry Bashing (Dragon Age), Cultural Differences, Cultural exchange, Dalish Elven Culture and Customs, Dissociation, Eluvians (Dragon Age), Elvish, F/F, Fantasy Racism, Flashbacks, Found Family, Friendship, Gen, Genocide, Grief/Mourning, Hurt/Comfort, I will single-handedly create all the merrill content if I must, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Infodumping, Inquisitor Merrill, Intelligent Merill, Internalized fantasy racism, Isolation, Mage (Dragon Age) Rights, Mage Abuse and Opression (Dragon Age), Merrill Positivity Week, Merrill-centric, Merrill: "I'm mean now", Minor Character Death, Neurodiversity, Non-Canon Inquisitor (Dragon Age), Nonbinary Character, Not Beta Read, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Pirate Captain Isabela, Self-Harm, Sera has ADHD, Special Interests, Stimming, The Fade, They're All Autistic, Wakes & Funerals, Warden Mahariel (Dragon Age), Warnings May Change, a city queer's understanding of leatherwork and metallurgy, autistic author, autistic characters, chugging my love Fiona juice, cullen neutral, dont be scared by the tags there's fun stuff too!, fenris n merrill are brother n sister Let Them Be, genuinely my favorite fic I've written, i will take a hammer and fix the canon, idk how to tag for merrill's past, its merrill positivity every week, josie has a lil crush on merrill, like uhh, mischaracterize merrill and die by my sword, pro-mages, sensory issues, thank u Project Elvhen for my life, this is a pro-autism server
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-04
Updated: 2021-02-14
Packaged: 2021-03-06 03:29:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 11
Words: 31,420
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25706683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TransSilver/pseuds/TransSilver
Summary: For Merrill, the grief carves a familiar hole in her gut; she didn’t know the other alienage “Keepers” very well, having only coordinated with them for the Conclave, trying to petition for the same exemptions from Templar interference that Dalish clans are allowed. She grieves for the lost potential, for the communities losing their guides, for the families losing each other.She grieves, and she wants nothing more than for Isabela to be here, carding ringed fingers through her hair and telling her what she has to say to go home to her.or;It has always been Merrill's power that made her different, deferred to and feared. To be a heretical chosen one is almost fitting.
Relationships: Anders & Merrill (Dragon Age), Anders/Fenris/Male Hawke, Fenris & Merrill (Dragon Age), Iron Bull/Dorian Pavus, Isabela/Merrill (Dragon Age), Leliana & Merrill, Male Hawke & Merrill (Dragon Age), Merrill & Cole, Merrill & Solas (Dragon Age), Merrill & Varric Tethras, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Series: Inquisition Fics/Fix-its [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2183541
Comments: 100
Kudos: 86





	1. with all my shadows

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Tell it from the mountain](https://archiveofourown.org/works/7555096) by [deleriumofyou](https://archiveofourown.org/users/deleriumofyou/pseuds/deleriumofyou). 



She wakes up in the dark, cold stone taking her heat from under her. This, the manacles around her wrists, not knowing where she is or how she got here—all of it is pushed aside to focus on the green  _ other _ pulsing in her left hand. Had the nerves of that arm not been dulled by years of blood magic, she has no doubt she’d be struggling to stay conscious against the pain. 

Taking a deep breath, she sends tendrils of her own magic down her hand, trying to get a sense of its nature or origin. As soon as contact is made with the foreign magic, she is filled with the instinctual knowledge she experienced all those years ago, when she finally removed the taint from the Eluvian. Touching it, she had felt in her bones the ancient connection to her people. 

How attending the Conclave has resulted in her carrying a piece of ancient Elvhen magic within her, she hasn’t the faintest.

Someone (or something) must have seen her as she woke, as within minutes of her discovery, an angry looking woman is charging into her cell, a somehow familiar hooded figure keeping pace behind her.

Angry Woman stalks behind her like a wolf around an injured halla, and leans in to speak in her ear; “Tell me why we shouldn’t kill you now—”

“My suspicions were correct: this is  _ the _ Merrill of Kirkwall.” The hooded woman has stepped into the dim torchlight, illuminated just enough to tell who she is.

Merrill doesn’t restrain her smile; “Leliana! I never got to thank you for not sending an Exalted March on Kirkwall! That would have hurt all the wrong people, not that the right people were being hurt in the first place—”

“Enough!” Angry Woman is in front of her, the large Chantry symbol on her chest occupying her view. “Knowing who you are only makes you a more likely suspect: the sole survivor of the Conclave, a known blood mage?”

She’d been fully prepared to happily ramble as Leliana freed her, for the other alienage leaders she’d arrived with to come and help explain away the misunderstanding, but. “The sole survivor?” She’s already been the last of her clan, she can’t do this again, it can’t be true.

Angry Woman’s eyes soften, and suddenly she realizes that the woman is not just angry, she is  _ grieving _ , lost and desperate for some kind of justice. For Merrill, the grief carves a familiar hole in her gut; she didn’t know the other alienage 'Keepers' very well, having only coordinated with them for the Conclave, trying to petition for the same exemptions from Templar interference that Dalish clans are allowed. She grieves for the lost potential, for the communities losing their guides, for the families losing each other.

She grieves, and she wants nothing more than for Isabela to be here, carding ringed fingers through her hair and telling her what she has to say to go home to her.

Merrill grieves, but she does not cry. “I don’t know if I was in the right place at the wrong time, the wrong place at the wrong time, or even what place and time it was. I was in the Fade, physically, and a spirit of some kind helped me escape.”

“A spirit?” When Angry Woman isn’t yelling, her voice is very pleasant, calling to mind the faint memories of her first clan in Nevarra. “Do you mean a demon?”

Humming, Merrill thinks before speaking; “If it was a demon, it did a very poor job trying to get something from me. It was shaped like a woman, but not like a Desire demon, and her head was a big upside-down triangle shape—” She hisses as the ancient magic sparks again in her hand, the pain radiating further up her arm each time.

Suddenly, Leliana is knelt before her, unlocking her cuffs; “Enough, Cassandra; we can question her later, when the fate of the world does not hang in the balance.”

As she rubs her freed wrists, Merrill tries not to think of how quickly shemlen turned to putting elves in chains yet again. “Oh, I doubt that will happen any time soon!”

Her joking remark gets stony faces in return, the woman named Cassandra looking especially upset. And when she’s led out into the snow to see the sky torn in two, the Veil bleeding over the mountains and sending wild magic crashing to the ground, she understands why they’re in no mood for levity 

Leliana slips away from them, getting lost in the flood of frantic people quickly enough to make Dirthamen proud. Merrill feels the chunk of the Beyond coming for the bridge moments before it hits, leaping over the edge and tumbling only slightly more gracefully than her prison guard. 

The piece of the Beyond is of course enough for three demons to pull through, and while it’s clear Cassandra is a considerable warrior, she’s overwhelmed. Merrill doesn’t need a staff, can feel enough power from the scrapes on her hands, but she knows saving the woman with blood magic will only end in another battle. Casting around for a focus, she finds a supply crate; honestly, she would have made do with any weapon, but she certainly won’t turn down a frost staff. 

When the warrior turns her sword to her and orders her to drop the staff, Merrill is more than a little confused. “I’m meant to be fighting, aren’t I? This ‘Breach’ is only goin’ to send out more demons the closer we get and, no offense, you didn’t exactly seem all that inclined to protect me.”

Cassandra’s face scrunches up, and Merrill is sure she’s said the wrong thing (even though what she said  _ was _ right, as she’s learned that even that can be wrong), before she sighs and sheaths her weapon. “You’re right. We’re going into battle, and I cannot protect you. If Leliana can put faith in you, then so must I.”

Merrill focuses on the cold biting at her skin, on the ice and rock beneath her feet, on the hum of magic through her staff as they push forward. Demons appear, they fight, they kill, and they run, until more demons come through and the cycle begins again. Eventually, they come to the remains of a tower, filled with more demons, but now in the throws of battle with mortals. Both their focuses shift from protecting themselves, to protecting these forces.

Being no fool, Merrill focuses her efforts on the nature and entropy magics expected of her as a first. As she ensnares a Rage to pull it away from a scout, she feels another’s barrier wash over her. Part of her is grateful, even excited at the presence of another mage, but Merrill is shocked and wary and just wants to get through the fight.

As she engages a final shade, she gets her wish, in the form of a crossbow bolt sending its essence right back to the Beyond. She turns, and thanks Falon’Din and Mythal, for there in front of her is Varric Tethras.

All of her body yearns to run to him, to some space of familiar in this world of Fade and fire. All except her left arm, filled with an ancient song, buzzing and drawing her to the tear the demons had been pulled through. It flairs, feeling as if it communes with the Veil itself.

She raises the hand, seeing the movement echoed by another figure from the corner of her eye (or reflected in the shard of the Beyond), and  _ pulls _ with the foreign magic, pouring her own power into it until, in one violent motion, it mends.

“It appears you hold the key to our salvation.” That voice: calm, precise, like the barrier that had surrounded her earlier. Another elven mage, not Dalish nor Circle nor, she suspects, even an apostate.

But more important matters press at her; her feet move without feeling, she may even Fade Step to get closer to him, Varric, the one piece of her life not torn like the sky. Running, she slides to her knees, wrapping her arms around him in a way he reciprocates just as tightly.

“Good to see ya, Daisy. It’s  _ damn _ good to see ya.” he mumbles into her hair; and Merrill knows dwarves have no magic, but a warmth and comfort settles in her as if she’s been charmed all the same. A gruff kiss is pressed into her scalp before Varric helps her to stand. 

With renewed clarity, she assess those around her: Varric beside her, using his nonchalance to disguise how he protectively puts himself in front of her; Cassandra, sweating from the heat of battle, and glaring with all her might at the dwarf; and then the mage, that elven hand that had stretched out with hers.

He’s tall for an elf, dark and lean with a proud brow. His ears are a different shape than she’s seen, not flat like the city elves, but long and pointed almost straight back. Merrill wonders idly how rude it would be to ask about his ears, before putting that safely in the box of “consult with Varric later”. Now, there were much more pressing questions.

The mage seems to agree: “I am Solas, if there are to be introductions. I was the one who aided you in your recovery.”

Merrill’s eyes go wide; “I knew your magic felt familiar! What school of magic do you specialize in? You don’t pull wisps like a spirit healer—are you even a healer at all? What do you know about the rifts, and how are they affecting your magic? Do you—”

Cassandra interrupts, baying they continue on, but Solas seems pleased. It reminds her of when she’d done extra studying and Hahren Paivel was surprised how well she told the legends (that was before she'd cleansed the Eluvian; after, she was lucky if he would speak with her at all). 

They only slow when reaching a bridge, where a particularly unpleasant Chantry Man seems determined to keep his head underwater. Still, she gets to see Leliana again, and despite this being only their second meeting, she continues to be a welcome sight. That may have some influence on Merrill choosing the mountain pass, but she also knows the advantage of a riskier path. Considering her miraculous survival, not being subsequently executed, and seeing Varric again, one of the Creators must be favoring her today anyways.

Merrill is surprised by how few demons there are, considering the Veil's wounds, but the sentiment doesn't seem to be shared by her non-elven companions. She makes sure the surviving scouts know basic defenses for the primary demon foci before continuing on.

She does not say that, if she was allowed to use her  _ true _ magic specialization, she could clear the whole pass herself. At least her companions are all competent fighters, and they are soon crossing the ruined threshold of the Temple of Sacred Ashes. The history of the place screams at her, ancient hurts reawakened by fresh tragedy. Even if the Breach had not been created, the Veil would be wounded here, emotions pushing at it and interested beings pushing back. Merrill sends a soft prayer to Falon'Din, but does not falter.

Regrouping with the forces, they discuss the plan, or what little of one they have. The Breach is poorly sealed, and like a badly healed bone must be broken to be set right.

Merrill feels the red lyrium seconds before Varric mentions it, that  _ wrongness _ crawling up her skin, though feeling weaker than she remembers. It reminds her of the Eluvian before she'd cleansed it. 

The voices spit by the Breach do nothing to fill the gap in her memories, so she ignores them, and channels her energy through the mark once again, this time calling on the ancient magics to  _ open _ , and it is almost effortless in comparison. The fighting of the Pride demon, less so. 

Fighting with Varric again makes it easier, but it brings with it challenges; too many of them are not here, and they've both changed in the years since their last fight. She catches herself reaching to shield someone who isn't there, flinches in surprise when Varric uses one of Bianca's new upgrades. Still, when she reaches into her own drained mana reserves to fuel her final pull at the Breach, it is Varric who catches her when she stumbles, easing her down to the ground. 

Her vision shutters, but the last thing she hears is not his gruff voice calling  _ Daisy _ down to her, is not Cassandra shouting for the forces that remain. It is her people's language, but spoken with the weight of the Fade behind it, meanings and feelings echoing over her,  _ through _ her:

_ "Na melana tel'sahlin. Hamin." _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translation: (roughly) Your time has not yet come. Rest.
> 
> my brain: yknow what's better than updating the da fic you already posted? scrounging this one up from months ago and posting it!  
> seriously I.... i simp for merrill. she's smart and funny and charming and kind to a world that wants nothing more than to see her fail. this won't be a straight retelling of inquisition cause that's boring, But the beginning is necessary to retell cause merrill being the herald Changes Things  
> isabela Will make an appearance for her gorl but travel by boat can only go so fast, trust that varric is sending a message for her while merrill is knocked out


	2. I feel it break my skin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for descriptions of blood magic-related self-injury

It pains Merrill that, when the elven servant sent to wake her stutters in fear, it was the reaction she'd expected. Still, she makes the effort to ask her name ( _Aranhen,_ the girl answers, and Merrill takes solace in how her eyes light up when she tells her it means 'my joy').

To be spoken about in hushed whispers by humans is also something she's grown to expect, but the strange reverence in some of their voices throws her. It reminds her more of how she'd heard Hawke spoken of (and his name is spoken now too, in the whispers; that she's a _close friend of the Champion_ , that she _helped raise the Warden Commander_. That last isn't strictly true, but the whispers rarely are).

She presses forward, trying to create a map of the place in her head like Isabela taught her. Her success is debatable, but it at least gives her an idea of places to look for Varric after… whatever this meeting will be.

This Chantry isn't as austentatious as the one in Kirkwall, though that's a very low bar to pass. The doors are still overly-large, but the wood is light enough for her to push them open. When she does, she's greeted with the sight of exactly who she was told wanted to meet with her.

Cassandra, even with the crest of the Chantry emblazoned on her chest, seems almost out of place. Some of that awkwardness is lost when she spots Merrill, so maybe she's just not good at waiting.

"Ah… Merrill. It is good to see you able. What of the mark? Does it trouble you?" 

She looks down at the hand in question, what was once a sparking green presence now having receded to a sliver of light in her palm. "I don't think trouble is the right word, exactly. I'm anxious to know what it is and what it does, but concerned how I'd be able to go about that safely." She doesn't reveal what she knows of it's origins, having learned painfully what happens when something powerful of her People is revealed to those who bare the mark of the Chantry.

The warrior woman stops leading them down the hallway, turning a… confused, maybe considering look at her; "You are much more… level-headed, than I had been led to believe."

There are many things Merrill could say to that. She could ask if that unnerves her, that a blood mage can speak sense. Or that an elf is intelligent, and knows her own power. But she doesn't say these things, because she is guilty until proven innocent, and that is something she's always understood. So instead she puts on a smile; "Varric is a very good writer, but he likes to _embellish_ " She pretends her smile is a wolf taunting its prey, and not one backed into a corner.

The Chantry Man is here again, and as they speak, Merrill wonders why the _shemlen_ would put him in a position of authority when he folds so easily under a stern glare and harsh words.

Leliana melts out of the shadows, and Merrill feels more reassured by her presence than she perhaps should. When they'd met in Kirkwall, Leliana was a blade of the Chantry, planning on setting fire to her new home in the name of 'order'. But she was also Leliana, veteran of the Fifth Blight, close companion of Warden Mahariel, and blade of the Chantry who didn't _want_ to set fire to Kirkwall (which ended up burning anyways).

And now, she's Leliana, one of two familiar faces here, and the reason she was freed from her chains.

"As of this moment, I declare the Inquistion reborn." Hearing Cassandra say that, hearing Leliana _agree_ with that, instantly changes her assessment. No one here is trustworthy. Merrill doesn't care if they think she was sent by their god, or even that they'd suspected her of mass murder hours (or days) before; people who think _that_ is a good idea are people she needs to be as far away from as possible.

She's already taking steps back, but she can't help but ask, because she needs to understand _why_ ; "There has been so much death and suffering; why would you add to it?"

The Chantry Man had left at some point after blood started rushing in her ears, so Cassandra and Leliana are the only two humans to react to her. Cassandra's reaction is more obvious: she frowns, surprise and confusion clear on her face. Her companion lets few feelings show, as would be expected of someone following Dirthamen's path.

The more reactive of the two humans speaks first: "We wish to restore order, not—"

"I am _well_ _aware_ of what the "order" of _shemlen_ means." Merrill cuts in, anger pouring in to meet her grief (her People's grief), and they feed off each other. Another step back, but she doesn't reach for her staff—if she has to fight her way out of here, those extra seconds reaching for it could spell her end. Instead, she clenches her fist, digging the sharpened nail of her forefinger into the flesh of her palm.

Absurdly, the action brings forth a memory from her travels with Hawke:

_"Anyone else need any healing?" Anders calls, standing and casting a restorative aura over them. The battle had been, by all accounts, standard fair, maybe even more simple than what Hawke normally got them into. But a simple battle does not mean safe, and this time Hawke was downed early on._

_He seems fully able after Anders' healing, but Merrill can still feel the prickling of magic through her hands from the long moments she'd spent making up for his absence. At one point, Aveline had been flanked to her front and back as she defended Hawke's prone form, and Merrill had gripped the blade of her dagger_ (ironbark, not the white steel she carries now, strapped to her thigh the way its twin is tied to her _vhenan_ ) _tight enough to draw blood. She called on the power of her own life force to aid her in channelling the Beyond, and slipped through the Veil to stand beside the overrun warrior. Clenching her bleeding fist, she'd flung the blood to the earth, and from that earth sprung large, crushing tendrils of nature magic up to meet their enemies. The ten men were ensnared before even one could direct a blow her way, and those tendrils constricted around them, pressure and the power of nature itself more than enough to end their fight._

 _After that she, along with Aveline and Anders, were able to dispose of the rest of_ _the attackers without any surprises. The end of battle found Merrill drifting away from the group. She isn't ashamed of wielding blood, but her companions had made their feelings on the practice known, so she keeps her distance. Having to be alone hurts less, with_ shemlen _, as she knows not to expect anything more._

_Taking cursory inventory of herself at Anders' question, she is startled to find fresh blood still dripping down her hand. The knife she wipes off on her thigh, knowing her tunic will have to be retired anyway, finally more thread than cloth. She then reaches under her armor for her pack, pulling out a clean footwrap._

_Now that she's focused on it, the wounds on her hand smart; less, probably, than they should, but enough to make winding the thin cloth around it difficult. She pulls it tight anyway, and is pleased that the blood only soaks through the first couple layers. If she really wanted, she could make use of the hedge technique she's been tweaking to 'stitch' the skin, but that always risked trapping possible infection. Merrill won't risk that when in the company of a spirit healer, and she trusts that differing beliefs would never get in the way of Anders' and Justice's desires to heal._

_(She actually doesn't know if healing was a drive that Anders'_ elgar'ath _shared; she wonders if there is still enough left they do share)_

_Pinning the cloth to her palm with her thumb, she finally calls out: "I need a hand here, if you've a mind!"_

_"Lucky for you, I've got two." he returns on his walk forward. Considering he'd just had to stabilize his_ vhenan _, she chalks up the Something in his voice to stress._

_"Two hands or two minds? I only need the one for both." She wiggles the fingers of her bandaged hand and sees his responding wince; directed towards her for any other injury, and she'd guess it was sympathetic._

_When he reaches her, he doesn't hesitate to reach for the hand, featherlight touches turning her wrist this way and that to inspect what he could see around the wrapping. He asks a few cursory questions about the rate at which it was bleeding, then asks for her permission to unwrap it_

_She nods, and curiosity builds as he begins, dulling the slight sting of the fabric shifting. "Does seeing make it easier? The healing?"_

_Anders blinks rapidly, but answers, voice younger, or maybe happier, than before: "Visualizing a wound is certainly an important part of diagnosis, though healers can also put too much emphasis on what they see, to their detriment. And their patients'." As he finishes speaking, he pulls off the final layer, and it sticking from drying blood is a good enough sign for her to not mind the pain._

_Her healer is less pleased, holding his left hand over hers and sending his magic, aided by a wisp, down and around the wounds. His magic is like the cool tingle of watermint. "You should be reacting more; here, do you feel this?" He runs a finger down one of hers, getting closer and closer to the wound._

_Merrill wants to snatch her hand back, because_ of course _she feels that. "Just because I don't whine like Varric doesn't mean I don't feel it."_

_"Well Varric doesn't cut his own hands!" Anders huffs, and Merrill regrets not dealing with this herself (it's always easier, dealing alone). She lets him continue mapping out the two cuts, and tells herself she expected this._

_"But Varric_ does _skip sleep to prep supplies the nights before battles. And Aveline takes hits for Hawke and I." Anders' hands have… stuttered as she speaks, and watching his movement as he heals has let her understand him more than any look to his eyes. Her voice probably sounds distant, speaking that way Varric describes as 'melodic'. That happens, when she lets herself speak the way she wants, the way her language taught her. "And you," she continues, turning her gaze from their hands to the distance, "you've cast from yourself too, when you've strained your magic past its limits. More often than you want us to think."_

_She expects him to get angry (or more angry, if that's what he has been), but Anders takes in a deep breath and lets it out slowly. "I understand what you're saying, that we all push past our limits to fight—but Merrill, you're risking permanent damage, cutting like this."_

_"_ Halam'shivanas _; when it comes to our lives, and the lives of those close to us, we risk what we must."_

Leliana steps further into the one patch of light in their present room. Her arms remain cross laxly behind her, though her body seems more tense. Merrill knows she isn't unarmed, but she just has to trust her preparation to be enough— risk what she must indeed.

"I believe Merrill" (Merrill who wants nothing more than to rip her name from their tongues, to never let them have any piece of her again) "is referring to the legacy of the first Inquisition. Or at least, the version of the Inquisition the Chantry teaches." She's heard the tales Leliana is implying, heard them traded like idle gossip in the alienage (heard the idea of an elf Inquisitor, an Inquisition that _helped_ mages, heard how they kept their tones calm yet passed it on as manifesto).

"No," Merrill corrects before Cassandra can speak, uninterested to hear her defense of the Chantry's version of the Inquisition, the blueprint for treating magic as an inherent evil; "I speak of every time humans have declared war under the banner of their Maker, and every time it was _my_ People who suffered their _righteousness_."

If she were someone else, somewhere else, she might take pleasure in the way Cassandra's mouth opens and closes, unable to respond. But she is tired, grieving for the past, the present, and whatever future these people hope to bring about, and she almost wishes she weren't elven just to be sure they would _listen._

Leliana lets her hands fall to her sides, showing her palms. Merrill still keeps hers clenched in a preparatory fist next to her, taking what little reassurance she can from the blood pooling under her nail.

"We would all benefit from a clear statement of purpose, I think;" the Sister begins, and Merrill hopes her clarifying doesn't involve more flowery language because she is tired, so tired of trying to find the threats and lies in people's words; "what Divine Justinia intended this writ for is not what drives us now: the primary goal of the Inquisition will be to seal the Breach, and after that, to find out who—or what—attacked the Conclave. The Dalish are not suspected of this, and with your help we can ensure they, and all elves, are treated fairly by the Inquisition."

Leaving isn't an option, as much as she wants it. The veil must be healed, and Leliana is right that she must remain to ensure the safety of her People. Merrill nods once, and reaches out with her non-bloodied hand; Leliana looks briefly surprised before offering her own.

Grasping her forearm, Merrill pulls her closer: "I will hold you to your word. The Breach will be closed, and my People _will_ be protected." She looks the Nightingale in her eyes, as much as it pains her, and sees only her own determined gaze reflected back at her. She is the first to break the contact, stepping back and turning to face Cassandra.

"Am I free to move about Haven?" Merrill is still unsure about the warrior woman's position, but she recognizes the battle abilities of a Templar, and knows that however kind Leliana may act, it is Cassandra who will control her freedom.

The woman still seems taken aback, but she clears her throat to respond; "Of course. The cabin you woke in will be your lodgings, and you may have the rest of the day to recuperate. Tomorrow you will be called to meet the other advisors as we plan our course of action."

Merrill nods again, giving one sharp downturn of the head to both of them, and turns on her heels to leave, too tired to put in the energy of a 'more sociable' goodbye. Her left palm stings as she pushes open the double doors, but the pain is quickly forgotten as she spots Varric, hidden in the shadows of the Chantry hallway.

He spots her too, no doubt having listened in on the whole meeting, and she lets him come to her. "If I didn't know you any better, I'd say you were doing a mighty fine Hawke impression in there." His usual light tone is there, if dampened somewhat.

Merrill thinks of fights to the death, of calling curses to her gods as she rains down devastation on their enemies. "But you do know me better."

Varric sighs, and grabs her non-bloodied hand to guide her out; "That I do, Daisy: that I do."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _Elgar'ath_ : lit. Spirit-half. A spirit residing in a willing mortal's body. More neutral than abomination, though views vary based on clan (in the Alerion clan, Merrill's birth clan, it can have a positive connotation, though potential dangers are not ignored; in the Sabrae clan it is more uniformly negative)  
>  _Halam'shivanas_ : the sweet sacrifice of duty
> 
> im honestly surprised i updated this within a month but here we go chapter 2! now that we've gotten the beginning of the game out of the way things can progress; look forward to intellectual debates with solas, a lot of freezing elf feet, and varric receiving response letters from a certain Rivaini pirate captain. (also, if ur wondering abt merrill's reaction/lack of reaction to pain, on top of mild nerve damage from blood magic, some autistic people just have a low pain response! she still feels pain, she just doesn't react to it the way neurotypical ppl expect. similarly, her trouble identifying what emotions ppl are desplaying is why i tagged alexythimia, which is a common aspect of autism) 
> 
> comments cure my depression


	3. and they call me under

As Varric fills her in on the past few days, it becomes abundantly clear who Merrill should speak with next. The problem is, she already knew she had to speak with him, knew in the way she always knows the direction of the moon. And that kind of certainty, that  _ draw _ , calls to mind spirits and deals and  _ temptations _ . 

So to say she is wary of the elvhen apostate Solas is an understatement. Even to Varric, whose trade is in the understanding of people, the elf is an unknown: showing up just when he was needed, and sharing  _ only _ what was needed. That he won the trust, however fleeting, of this group of Chantry-loving  _ shemlen  _ so quickly only furthers her suspicion. Her best guess is some kind of mild compulsion he's cast on the leaders, something subtle enough to not blindly convince them of his goodness, but make them open to hearing his defense.

(The possibility that he simply  _ spoke _ with them to convince them, no magic involved, is more frightening. To have that power, on top of being a clearly accomplished mage…)

Avoidance is a tactic Merrill could never sit with long, though, so it is only dusk of her first conscious day in Haven when she makes her way to the cabin beside the apothecary. Solas stands outside, silently observing his surroundings.

When he spots her he speaks up; "The chosen of Andraste. A blessed hero sent to save us all." His tone is too even for her to read anything from it, but the slight upturn of his lip tells Merrill he's probably poking fun.

"Ooh, that makes me sound like one of Varric's tales; do I get to ride in on a griffon?" If the older elf is mocking her, she'd rather be in on the joke.

Something bright flickers in his face for an instant; "I would have suggested the same. Sadly, they are extinct. Joke as you will, posturing is necessary." Merrill thinks Hawke would agree with that, but she also thinks Hawke would say it in a much more exciting way.

"I've journeyed deep into the Fade in ancient ruins and battlefields to see the dreams of lost civilizations." He turns away from her as he speaks, his body now facing the Breach. "I've watched as hosts of spirits clash to reenact the bloody past in ancient wars both famous and forgotten." And then he faces her again, the force of his curiosity almost palpable; "Every great war has its heroes. I'm just curious what kind you'll be."

His curiosity is all well and good, but what he spoke of before ignites her own: "Are you a Fade Walker? I met one once in Kirkwall—well, I actually met him a few times, including once in the Fade, but I was a bit distracted by the demons that time."

It seems she's making a habit of surprising people here, Solas raising an eyebrow at her; "That's something your Master Tethras had failed to mention. Yes, I am  _ I've'an'virelan _ . May I ask what brought you to Kirkwall, away from your clan?" 

Any explanation she could offer seems too personal to share with this man, and Merrill doesn't want to give him a bad impression of the Dalish (or speak about dealing with demons in a Chantry encampment). "I don't think there's anyone who wouldn't travel with Hawke," she says at last, "and the Kirkwall alienage eventually became something of a clan for me."

"Forgive me, but in my experience with the Dalish, they were no more inclined to speak with 'flat-ears' than they are with humans." 

She hadn't expected her first time needing to defend the Dalish here to be from another elf, but Fenris had given her ample practice. "We aren't monolithic, you know; some clans are wary of all outsiders, with good reason, while others will welcome any elf who wishes it. That other Fade Walker was half human, and my old clan still took him in."

Solas has the decency to at least appear chastised. “ _ Ir abelas _ . I should not have let several... unsavory interactions color my judgement of the People."

" _ Tel'Abelasa _ ,  _ Hahren _ . I'm well aware of my people's defensiveness; just know it comes from experience. Being of one people doesn't stop city elves from sending templars after clans." She walks over and leans her back against the cabin, finding herself much more open to the conversation now that she isn’t facing him. “Of course, the Kirkwall templars were too busy chasing the mages  _ in _ the city to make the trip to Sundermount. When we were in Ferelden though, the  _ shems _ called us ‘demon elves’; even without the Blight, we’d have needed to leave soon.”

“I find myself in a similar position,” Solas confesses, and she feels her ears twitch in interest, “and unlike you, I do not have a divine mark protecting me. I will stay, offer what aid I can; but you understand my caution.” Merrill’s eyes track one of the many  _ shemlen _ in Chantry robes. She definitely understands.

“Varric will help, if you need to leave. Give him a few hours and most people will be convinced you were never here.” As she speaks, Solas takes steps to face her, but doesn’t force eye contact.

When he responds, his words sound even more carefully chosen: “And if you find yourself with that need?”

She looks up, catching grey-blue for a moment before settling on the horizon: “The only ‘need’ I have is to protect my People, and so I must stay.” And with that, she closes her eyes, feeling the sun’s warmth barely cut through the chill of the Frostbacks.

Hearing feet shift through the snow, she eventually feels the soft ‘thud’ of Solas resting against the cabin as well. “And so you must.”

—

The next time she’s called into the Chantry, they let Varric come in with her. His presence becomes quickly justified when she sees Cullen and breaks into a fit of nervous giggles. She’d only met with him face-to-face once after taking down Meredith, shortly before his departure from Kirkwall, when his templars had decided to try bringing their 'order' to the alienage. 

After ordering everyone inside, Merrill alone had stood before the templars, demanding they send for their Knight-Commander. When Cullen had arrived, all she'd done was look him in the eye and tell him everything was under control, and after a moment he lowered his gaze, nodded, and marched out, taking their ranks with him.

Looking at him now, he seems… Paler, certainly, but the color in his cheeks has been traded for a sharper focus in his eye. She quiets herself, but doesn’t offer explanation. Cassandra had walked them in, and Leliana is there as well, along with a younger human woman on the other side of Cullen.

"Merrill, this is Lady Josephine Montilyet, the ambassador for the Inquisition." Cassandra says, and the young woman smiles, adjusting her grip on her writing board.

" _ Andaran atish’an, _ " she greets, and Merrill's heart stutters and swells at hearing her tongue from a human, even as heavily accented as it is.

Merrill speaks the expected response in Common; "Your grace warms my heart." Varric looks at her oddly as she says it, but the formality of the greeting demands the same formality in response, even for a human who might not understand. Josephine looks pleased by it, at least; she seems to be the type of person who's pleased in general, and Merrill hopes she remains so.

Clearing her throat, Cassandra continues; "And you are already… acquainted with Commander Cullen, who will lead the Inquisition's forces."

The man in question opens his mouth to speak, but Merrill beats him to it; "Do you think I'm people now?" While it had taken her long to align herself with the cause of mages, she's always been aware that to a man like Cullen, she's no different than the mages who'd cowered under his control (except that she is more dangerous, a  _ blood mage apostate _ ; she is all his fears combined).

Cullen's face contorts oddly, eyes widening and wincing at the same time. After an awkward beat of silence, he seems to deflate, and the look on his face is more open than humans usually are with her. "My words and inaction in Kirkwall shame me, Lady Merrill. I allowed myself to be blinded by fear and hate, and it took the most extreme of Meredith's abuses for me to see the corruption of the Order that was there all along." While addressed to her, his words are meant for the room, honest intention digging into the foundations and soil of the place. "I will admit, I still fear the danger of magic in the wrong hands, but I accepted this role in the Inquisition to work for the good of  _ all _ people, mages chief among them."

She hopes, for his sake, that he keeps his promise; to make an oath like that in a place as rich in history and energy as Haven guarantees inhabitants of the Beyond are listening. "I hope your actions will speak louder than your words did, then." She decides, and then nods in the way  _ hahrens _ will at the end of an important lecture.

With the tension mostly dealt with, the meeting begins in earnest, Cassandra and Leliana delivering most of the information and potential first steps. The Hinterlands; she's thankful they aren't straying close to the areas her clan had stayed, but her first task being to speak with a Chantry Mother seems a poor way to convince her of their intentions.

It's such a poor way that, because she doesn't underestimate Leliana's intelligence, Merrill assumes she knows, and knows that Merrill knows, and is hoping this communicates that they are  _ using _ the Chantry, not enacting its will.

So she agrees, the scouting party is sent out, and the next day their mounts and provisions are ready for the day's ride.

What they aren't ready for is the state of the Hinterlands when they arrive. Merrill quickly decides that speaking with the 'nice Chantry Mother' is moving to the bottom of her priorities, and keeping power-hungry templars and fear-blinded mages from tearing apart the land is moving to the top.

Solas tries to reason with the mages, Creators bless him, but Merrill just sends a quick calming compulsion over them—not forcing them to see her as an ally, just clearing the fog of fight-or-die from their minds enough for them to register the two clearly non-Circle Loyalist elven apostates before them.

Some choose to join them in fighting off the templars, others turn tail and make their escapes (Merrill doesn't judge that few; these people are being forced into a fight they aren't trained for, against a force who've trained their whole lives for it). The four or so who remain are still enough of a presence to convince further apostates to stand down, no compulsion needed, and the templars in this part of the valley are quickly routed. 

The mages who remain flinch when Cassandra approaches, wiping her blade on the cloth decorating her armor. She appears equally startled at their reaction, before sheathing her weapon and steeling her expression. 

One of the mages they've collected is a healer, and after healing their fellows, they tentatively approach the warrior: "Seeker? W-would you let me look at the wound on your forehead?" Despite their stutter, the tan mage stands with their back straight and head held high, having to look down slightly to meet Cassandra's gaze. 

Again, after a moment of surprise, her expression shifts; this time to one Merrill can't quite identify. "You have my permission, and my thanks." The healer grins at that, quickly lifting a hand coated in blue light, and the sluggish flow of blood down her face ceases. Work done, they give a nod, before returning to their group, where they are met with a shove and harsh whispers.

Merrill doesn't eavesdrop, her ears more interested in the creaking wood of the cabin doors in the small valley being opened, a few shaky elves and humans stepping out. Upon seeing the staves, some make to retreat, but Varric waves them all over—whether it's that he's a dwarf, almost as unheard of as templars as they are as mages, or just Varric's particular friendly disposition, most are convinced that the fighting is over and make their way down.

"Did you clear out them blighted templars? With the war on, trade's slowed to nothin', and we're runnin' out of dry stores." One farmer speaks up, and Varric puts on his 'charming hero' smile and directs them to the Inquisition soldiers setting up camp to see what supplies they can spare. Another civilian calls out that it's safe, and another, larger wave of people pour out of the cabins, this time with elders and children in tow. 

Over the course of the next few hours, the area (fittingly named 'the Crossroads') transforms from a battlefield to a place of living and trade. Resilience, she's learned, is a trait of all people made to endure. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _I've'an'virelan_ : Dreamer Mage, Fade Walker (referred to in da2 by the Tevene 'Somniari")  
>  _Ir abelas_ : I'm sorry  
>  _Tel'Abelasa_ : (roughly) Don't be sorry  
>  _Andaran atish’an_ : Enter this place in peace
> 
> remember when i said i was finished with the beginning of the game? me neither. a good amount of the solas dialogue is copied straight from canon cause those lines are superbly written (also i love both these nerdy elves having a thing for griffons in canon).  
> I have my problems with how cullen's 'redemption' is written in Inquisition, but i don't imagine merrill holds a particularly strong grudge against him- she's got bigger fish to fry- so im making him more genuinely apologetic than canon.  
> mage rights! i will forever be annoyed at the 'both-sides'-ing of the mage templar conflict in game, so no mindlessly attacking rebel mages here
> 
> next up: someone takes notice of merrill's magic, and val royeaux. hopefully. at some point... and varric getting a letter back from Isabela (idk how fast letters can get delivered in thedas but its only been like five or six days since the conclave so Give Her a second)  
> pls ramble at me in the comments


	4. I am an alien inside a structure

As The Crossroads rebuilds itself, their small party works with the growing number of Inquisition scouts and soldiers to provide what they can for the refugees, mostly in the form of protection and supplies. Merrill can feel Cassandra's agitation grow as one day becomes two and they've still not sought out the Chantry Mother, but if she can't see why aiding this many people is more important than speaking with one woman, then Merrill doesn't know how words would convince her.

(Besides, she doubts this 'Mother Giselle' is as fun to talk with as Scout Harding)

The mages that joined at that first skirmish are a great help—their presence alone was enough to convince the nearby rebel encampment to send a representative instead of attacking—but it becomes rapidly clear how poorly their lives in the Circles prepared them for survival. Cassandra scoffs when she hears them complain of the cold, but Merrill looks at their thin robes and wonders if this is the longest they've been allowed outside. 

She teaches the healer, Luca, a warming glyph to be applied to fabrics, and makes sure the furs and skins the local hunter left are being cleaned and tanned so that they'll have something more substantial to wear. It's as she's taking over cleaning a ram's pelt from a mage girl young enough to still fear blood that Solas finds her.

A stubble is beginning to cover his shaved scalp, and it makes him look altogether softer, like a newborn baby chick. She doesn't say this, but it stays in her mind as he inclines his head; "Herald; a word, if you please."

While it's a title she's grudgingly becoming familiar with, it's odd for the older elf to address her as such; while he is too formal to use her first name, their first true conversation had shown he understands the weight 'Herald' carries, so his use of it now is pointed.

Rising from where she had crouched to work, she hands the un-bloodied pelt back to the girl: "The natural oils are still in the wool. The tanner should have some Fuller's Earth for you to dust it with, then you can fold it up and we'll knock the clay out tomorrow. Okay  _ da'len _ ?" 

The mousy girl nods determinedly, her confidence returned now that there's no blood in sight, and Merrill can't help but pat her on the back before sending her on her way. With that done, she lets Solas lead her to a quiet field, out of earshot of the Inquisition scouts but still in their line of sight.

"I trust that your compulsion has worn off." He states with no preamble, something… hard behind his usual detachment.

She isn't surprised that he noticed; elvhen in general are more sensitive to manipulations of the Fade, and Solas has no doubt honed that sensitivity through his studies. She does, however, feel a spark of frustration that she struggles to suppress. The position of the accused is one she is too accustomed to. 

Studying a cotton tuft drifting in the breeze, she answers: "It wore off almost as soon as it was cast. I ask you to speak directly,  _ hahren _ : I am a known  _ Lin'thanelan _ . Are you against this?"

His eyes widen and he inhales, then his gaze sharpens; "It is not your wielding of blood that concerns me, but you affected their minds, their  _ will! _ To do that so freely—"

"Don't accuse me of things I didn't do;" she interrupts, turning and reflecting his own frustration back at him; "all I did was alleviate their fear, allowing them to think clearly. It was the templars who forced this fight—I wouldn't do the same."

"So it was what, coincidence that most joined your side?" He snaps back, though as quickly as his anger had risen it is subsiding.

Merrill sighs, "Rebel mages deciding to put their lots in with two clear apostates fighting templars? That's not coincidence, Solas, that's sense. Though I don't blame the ones who fled." 

Solas closes his eyes, breathing deeply for a few moments, as nature continues to live heedlessly around them. "I suppose your intervention was preferable to a fight," he relents, "but I doubt the Lady Seeker would agree. You risk yourself,  _ da'len _ ."

She bristles at the term, as much as it also tugs at the complicated warm feelings she still holds for her clan. "Risking myself to save lives? Isn't that what I'm supposed to be doing?" Her voice is sing-song again despite her frustration, which only frustrates her more: now he'll view her as even more childlike, a  _ fen'len _ unaware of the consequences of her actions.

Instead of going into another reprimand as she expects, his shoulders hunch slightly, as if suddenly bearing a great weight, and when she chances a look at his eyes he seems almost guilty. "It is true that what we ask of you demands risk and sacrifice; it was naive of me to imply otherwise. I only wished to..."

"Protect me?" she fills in, most of her anger forgotten, leaving in place a familiar resignation. "I know what they think of my magic  _ hahren _ , what they'll do if they see it. I've watched the light leave Tranquil's eyes, seen children torn from clans, from families; I fought as they tried to cleanse mages in fire and blood. So I'm careful, and I use it only when it spares lives, but I'm not a child, and I will not be afraid."

The taller elf shifts, moving his hands to clasp in front instead of his usual position with them behind. He nods firmly in response. "From what you have demonstrated, you are indeed a formidable mage, possessed of indomitable focus." He looks away for a moment, and when he turns back, he wears the echo of a grin; "There may yet come a time we converse that won't necessitate my apologies. I find myself… looking forward to the possibility."

Both their ears flick as heavily booted footsteps approach from the village, but she still answers him with a full smile: "I look forward to it too." 

As she turns to greet whoever's come to fetch her, she sees Solas's wide eyes, his expression more open than she's ever seen it.

Who comes to them but Cassandra, arms crossed and determined as ever, and she addresses Merrill: "Mother Giselle is waiting for you by the healer's hut." Her tone brooks no argument (not that it ever does), and Merrill figures she's put off the meeting long enough. Solas bobs his head in a delayed goodbye, before the Seeker decides to engage him in a conversation of her own.

Mother Giselle is younger than the few Chantry Mothers Merrill has met, and her acts of service at least speak to her kindness being more genuine than her fellows'. She is more open to magic in general, but seems wary of Merrill in particular, even as she offers her support. The fledgling organization she's a part of now can hardly afford to be picky, so Merrill thanks her for her help. As for the advice to confront the Chantry in Val Royeaux, she says they'll "take it under advisement", which is a helpful phrase Varric taught her for when she thinks what's been suggested is pointless, but can't say that.

She finds Varric leaning against a tree, one of the children asking a rapid series of questions, leaving no spaces between for him to actually answer. Varric just smiles at them, and with the sun phasing through his hair he looks soft in a way Kirkwall rarely afforded him. He catches her watching and smiles wider, before leaning to whisper something in the child's ear. Their eyes widen and, after he gives an encouraging nod, they run up to her:

"Did you really fight wif da Champion?" they ask, face round and full of wonder, their pointed ears sticking out from their curly hair.

Merrill bends down slightly, "I did! Though I think Fenris did the most fighting of all of us." And that was the right call to mention; the child practically shakes with excitement, one their hands flapping happily.

"You knew Fenris too!?" They get closer, leaning in as if to whisper, though when they speak again their voice is its same loud volume: "Was he really  _ that _ grumpy?"

She hums, pretending to think very hard; "I think the only person he isn't grumpy with is Hawke." (She doesn't add that Fenris is rarely 'grumpy' with Anders now, only reserving it for when he refuses to take care of himself).

The child giggles, before scampering off with a quick wave goodbye. Merrill takes the last few steps to Varric, who's smile has slid back into his signature smirk. 

"How was talking with the Mother? They makin' you a saint?" She knows what he's actually asking;  _ are you alright? _

"No, as far as I know I'm still firmly in the 'heretic' pile. She seemed to think that was why I should talk with them. The Chantry. In Val Royeaux."

Varric laughs, but when she doesn't smile he turns it into a groan. "You're serious. Any chance we can hide that plan from the Lady Seeker? One visit to a Chantry jail cell was enough for me." 

Frowning, she puts a hand on his shoulder; "You know I wouldn't let that happen  _ lethallin _ ." What goes unspoken is the knowledge they share, that Varric had let himself be captured in the hopes he could lead them away from Hawke and his  _ vhenans _ ' trail. "Enough of that," she says, waving her hand to wipe the topic away; "what have  _ you _ picked up from  _ your _ 'talks'?"

Her air quotes make him chuckle, and he gives a mock offended gasp: "Are you implying that I'm not speaking with these poor townsfolk out of the goodness of my heart?"

"Not  _ just  _ out of that, no." she answers with a smile. 

"Alright, fine. I  _ happened _ to overhear the locations of a few rifts that should be on the way to the horse master's place…"

—

Closing the rifts doesn't get easier necessarily, but as with so many other unbelievable things, she is getting used to it. As long as she doesn't think about how she's bending the Veil itself to her will for too long. 

The wolves they encounter on the outskirts of Dennet's ranch unsettle her, and from Solas's comments he feels the same, but Master Dennet and his horses are at least found unharmed. She would have promised to investigate the wolves without reward, but that and the watchtowers being the price for fully-tended mounts seems more than a fair trade. Cassandra says they'll have to return to Haven first, and Merrill takes that to mean it's a decision they can't make on their own.

Returning to Haven fills her with more dread than she would have expected. It's not as if she expects to be thrown in chains again (at least not so soon), but being outside, moving from camp to camp—it feels so much more like  _ home _ than a cabin all to herself ever could.

What she  _ definitely _ doesn't expect is for Cullen to be the only one of the Inquisition's leaders she agrees with. And yet, when he speaks against going to Val Royeaux, his logic is sound.

"Also," Merrill adds, "approaching the Chantry might alienate potential allies who are excited we oppose them." Cassandra looks shocked at the idea that anti-Chantry allies would even be considered, which Merrill finds a bit odd for someone currently heading an organization disavowed by said Chantry.

Leliana considers the point; "An appearance in Val Royeaux does not have to involve seeking peace with the Chantry; think of it more as an introduction to the masses, and not allowing the Chantry to spread more falsehoods without response."

Introducing the Inquisition—and Merrill as the 'Herald' specifically—seems to be the reasoning Josephine prefers as well, "Though I ask you not to antagonize the Chantry speakers there; a general message of our intent to seal the Breach and find the person responsible should suffice." 

While still disgruntled, Cassandra and Cullen both agree to the plan. Cullen also agrees to establishing watchtowers in the Hinterlands if they mark ideal locations on the next expedition. With that settled, they pointedly do not discuss Merrill having established them as an ally to the rebel mages, and instead conclude the meeting.

"Oh, Lady Merrill, if you would join me in my office?" Josephine asks as everyone filters out of the room, and as Merrill already wants to speak with this kind human (and since her 'office' is only three steps away from the meeting room), she agrees with a friendly nod.

Her office is the same cold stone as much of the building, but there is a large, intricately woven rug that Merrill can only assume is very expensive, and while sensation in her feet has been dulled from a lifetime of wearing only wrappings, she can still feel its plushness between her toes.

"Please, have a seat," Josephine gestures with one hand, seating herself behind her desk, "I have so many questions, but first and foremost: proper forms of address. Calling you by your first name is hardly professional, and I do apologize, but in trying to be sensitive to your issues with the title of 'Herald'—"

Merrill raises a hand from her seat to cut her off; "I'm more than happy with you calling me Merrill; I haven't used my family name since I was a little one." 

Her answer seems to leave Josephine flustered, "Surely there is a title you would be more comfortable with? I know city elves will sometimes refer to the leader of their alienage as ' _ Hahren _ '."

The thought makes Merrill giggle; "They do, but the word actually refers to our elders— I'm older than you and Cullen, sure, but calling me that would make Leliana or Solas look rather silly." From his brief showcases of humor, she thinks Solas would probably get a kick out of it. The ambassador still seems embarrassed, so she tries to come up with a solution: "I'm fine with being introduced as your 'Herald' to the people that expect it, and the scouts have been calling me 'Ser' so that should work with everyone else. But you said you had other questions?"

Honestly, all this talk of titles makes her understand more why Hawke hated them, and she's glad when Josephine takes the cue. "Certainly; your story is fascinating, and inspiring," and there Josephine's blush deepens in a way that is decidedly  _ not _ embarrassment, "but as I'm sure you're aware, accounts are… inconsistent. If I am to introduce you to the public, I would like to know  _ who _ I'm introducing."

Which sounds completely fair to Merrill, even recognizing it as a justification for the curiosity the human already holds. "Ask away!"

"Excellent! First, there's a clarification to be made—pure formality, I assure you:" she says it like an inside joke, but it's not one Merrill is aware of, "Varric's novel and rumor suggest that you practice blood magic. Now, as there are no witnesses of this who have come forward—"

"I do." If asked, she couldn't say why she tells her. At this point, she's already invested significant energy in keeping the talent hidden. But Merrill has never been one to hide, and it's not as if Cullen (and even Leliana) are unaware of her 'proclivities'. Josephine is young, and kind, and intent on presenting a positive image of the Inquistion to the rest of Thedas, so it seems only fair that she have all the information.

The woman in question seems stunned into silence, so Merrill continues, "I wouldn't classify myself as  _ only _ a blood mage, as I primarily work with Entropy and Nature magics, but I do use my blood to enhance my abilities." Thinking back to trying to explain her specialization to Anders, she adds: "And yes, I did make a deal with a demon. I ended up killing him, and it's not something I've done since."

She doesn't feel shame for the deal she'd made; she'd needed the power to remove the Taint from the Eluvian, and Audacity had offered it. Still, the bitter, frustrated sadness at Marethari's death is something she thinks might never leave her—why her Keeper would think possession was the only answer is a question she'd agonized over for months. But she feels no shame for what she did, and will continue to do.

After opening and closing her mouth, Josephine clears her throat to speak, "I will… take that under advisement while drafting your address. Moving on: your original armor and robes were unable to be recovered after the explosion, but the standard scout uniform is hardly fitting for addressing Val Royeaux. I've spoken with what few Dalish contacts we have…" After her brief moment of adjustment, Josephine does what she said: she moves on, attitude no less focused and friendly than it was before.

Merrill is reminded bizarrely of Isabela; the way she never reacted to Merrill's magic with judgement or fear, only a mild curiosity (or later, concern). Isabela explained that to her, magic is a tool, and since she doesn't wield it, it doesn't seem her place to say how others should.

She misses her, in that aching way when she'd first set sea out of Kirkwall, that ache that had faded with visits and letters back now with a vengeance. So she cups a hand over her ear, hears the whooshing of her heart pumping blood, and pretends it's the crashing of the sea, bringing her  _ vhenan _ to her. 

* * *

**_Copies of outgoing & incoming letters for the Spymaster's viewing: _ **

> _ Rivaini, _

> _ Your Kitten is alive, but we're surrounded by dogs. She's napping, and could use your help sharpening her claws. _

> > _ -Vee Tee _

> _ Vasshole, _

> _ You better be looking after her. I'm on my way.  _

> > _ -Admiral Dog-Catcher _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _Lin'thanelan_ : blood mage, lit. one who wields blood  
>  _da'len_ : child, little one  
>  _fen'len_ : little wolf; among the dalish a pejorative used to refer to an unruly child  
>  _vhenan_ : a shortening of "Ma vhenan", term of endearment meaning 'my heart'
> 
> please dont talk to me abt the formatting of the letters i Tried My Best.  
> finally a real chance for Merrill Defense in this chapter (and yes i did research methods for cleaning pelts; fuller's earth is a general term for clay used in the cleaning process, it essentially absorbs excess oils. but dont quote me on anythin)  
> josie sees merrill's blood magic as just another thing to be worked around when cultivating the inquisition's image (and from the dialogue w a carta inquisitor its canon that josie has a Thing for bad girls lmao)  
> coming up next: val royeaux (for real this time) which means sera and vivienne! some,,, interesting dynamics to be sure. varric may get in trouble with merrill for asking isabela to come, even tho she reallllly wants her there. also if u see the warden tag; my warden is a rogue mahariel and while he won't show up, leliana will at some point talk w merrill abt him cause she Misses her Friend
> 
> stay as safe as you can y'all; if you need distractions i am always happy to ramble abt merrill (and cole and varric and anders and Shale and really most da characters)


	5. scooping mud and digging graves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for discussions of death and grief, autistic shutdown/panic attacks, and a funeral

Ambassador Josephine doesn't comment on Merrill's lapse in composure (not that many in this group would think her 'composed' at the best of times), and by the time the meeting concludes Merrill's smile is genuinely pleased as they say their goodbyes. The prospect of Dalish armor designs is admittedly certainly enough to make her pleased on most days, but she's learned to take no moment of joy for granted. Josephine was clear with the other Inquisition leaders that a proper outfit is essential to her trip to Val Royeaux, so she's been given a week's break before the garment is ready. 

To her own confusion, she finds the free time more worrying than welcoming. When out traipsing the Hinterlands, she could joke with Varric, debate with Solas, teach adults and children alike as she had been taught to do.

But here, in the mourning silence of land deadened by snow, she cannot find it in herself to laugh and smile when people she  _ knew _ —not just her People but  _ her _ people— are lying caked in ashes only a few miles away. She offers help where she can around Haven, even uses her little herbalism knowledge to aid in the healing tents, but no distraction is complete enough to remove her mind from where the Breach sits, bodies forever frozen around it.

Varric has noticed, though she's not sure exactly when. It's two days into the week that he asks her, point-blank, "What's wrong?"

She imagines shifting the weight of her grief from her chest to her shoulder, that she might find air to speak. "I'm scared that I might forget their names. No one here would know them, I doubt they even took notice…"

Her friend looks confused, but she just gestures to the Breach, her other hand caressing the knit of the shawl one of the elves still here gave her. "Their alienages should be contacted, sent condolences and supplies but… I haven't even put them to  _ rest, _ " she breaks off then, choking on the admittance of her failure. These people trusted her, deferred to her knowledge as a 'Keeper', yet she hasn't given them the most basic of dignities.

Strong arms pull her down in an embrace, and she tucks her arms in, stroking the shawl. "It's okay, Daisy, we can do that; Ruffles can send the letters, there's already a recovery mission planned for the Temple—you don't have to do any of this shit alone."

But she does, Merrill  _ knows _ she does, and she knows Varric is smart enough to know it too. She takes the comfort she can in pretending, for just a moment, that the weight isn't on her shoulders alone.

Varric directs her to her cabin, and has her make a list of the alienage leaders she knew, and where they were from. Every time she has to pause and think, she is sure that this is the one, the person she forgot, left to drift forever without Falon'Din's guide. But the names come, as do the faces, frozen in the moments of tentative hope she knew them in.

When he steps out to deliver the letter, she's certain he's leaving, but he just flags down a worker and passes it to them with some coin. After she doesn't take his suggestion to move from the floor where she'd written, he sighs, tugs a blanket from her bed, and sits with her. Her hands find the shawl again, tracing the patterns of the yarn, and she hums. Not quite a song, just three notes repeating, and Varric doesn't ask her to stop.

She hums, and her body rocks forward to back, and the grief is still there but it settles, like the shawl around her shoulders.

The next day, the bodies are retrieved, and grief and guilt assault her full force when she realizes she doesn't know how to identify them. She was there at the Temple, she saw that of all the bodies the only defining feature that remained was their anguish. She doesn't know what to do, how to help them, and she— 

She runs.

Leaving the gated bounds of Haven is easier than she'd expected; no one stops her, not the Chantry sisters nor the workers, and the scout posted at the gate to the forest only nods as she runs by. Clearly, she looks determined, like she knows what she's doing and what she's doing is right. She doesn't look like a coward, running away from ghosts past and present.

The snow in the forest reaches past her ankles, the cold a sharp sting to her bone. There's no direction to her journey, she just runs  _ out _ and  _ away _ . She could run for hours, she thinks, days. It won't really help.

All at once, she stops, sinking into the snow under her. Before her, a nug scampers by, and when she stops, it stops, looking at her curiously. And all at once, she cries—more hitched breaths than anything, the cold stealing her tears away before they form. 

The small creature comes closer to her, and she reaches a scarred hand out for it to scent. In the midst of her grief, over their deaths and over her failure, there is life; small and beautiful and too young to know to be afraid.

Merrill scratches it behind its ear before the crunching of snow behind her has it startling, scampering back to safety. She wipes the back of her hand against her dry eyes, but remains crouched where she was, tracking the nug's path as the person behind her comes to a halt.

" _ Da'len _ …" Solas says on a sigh, and she chooses to find comfort in the word.

She doesn't turn to face him when she speaks; "There aren't oaks in this forest, but I think we can find plenty of cedar," her voice is as light as she can make it, but she knows her crying is still thick in her throat. Rising, she brushes snow from her knees; "will you help me look,  _ hahren? _ "

When she turns to face him, there is a knowing sort of sadness—the way all her people know loss, she thinks. "Of course."

— 

She may not know which body is Myriani and which is Fravun, but who is of her people is still clear. The alchemist provides a few saplings (birch, for hope and new beginnings, though the man was probably growing them for their bark). The oak staves are requisitioned from Seggrit—Merrill doesn't know what Varric says to convince him, exactly, but the human's gaze is fixed firmly on the ground when he hands them to her. Elven workers offer to help, but what surprises her most is the small group of humans who walk from the Andrastian funeral to offer their assistance.

As a First, she had had to learn the proper funeral rites, and burying an unidentifiable group is a common enough occurrence among the Dalish to have specific prayers. She first prays to Dirthamen, to unite them with their hidden names and peoples, then calls on his twin to guide them to the Beyond. 

To the spirits pressing against the Veil, those of Mercy and Loss, she offers her feelings of guilt and acceptance to share, in exchange for the dead's passage to remain unmolested. They accept, but do not linger, expressing no interest in crossing to this side.

The elves in attendance lower their heads, some muttering prayers of their own; to the Creators, the Maker, Andraste, or to the power of the people still here to carry on. Aranhen makes a stumbling half-curtsey to her, and she smiles and bows her head in return, bringing a blush to the young woman's face. 

Just outside of the ring of mourners stands Solas; he'd helped collect branches as promised, but stepped away once the ceremony began. She knows he's not Dalish, nor a city elf; can tell he doesn't have one foot in both roles, like she does. But she knows he is proudly elven, and has faced hardship and loss for it, as they all have. So she makes her way over to his side, looking as he does at the freshly packed soil.

"We can use this time to mourn  _ all _ those we've lost;" she says, trying to leave her voice quiet, but still conversational. "I don't think they'll mind." 

He makes half a smile, barely tugging at his upper lip, and she thinks if she looked even half as sad as that then she understands why Varric had worried. "I do not think there could ever be enough time to mourn them all."

"I don't think it's about  _ enough _ ," she wagers, watching the biting wind flutter the leaves of the saplings, "our caring for them isn't measured in how long, or hard, or well we grieve. I think they know we care, and grieving is just how we show it to ourselves. That they were real; that they mattered."

Out of the corner of her eye, she watches him inhale; a movement so rough and big it disrupts his whole frame, as if his grief is too big for his body. On his exhale, he finds space in himself for it once again, packing the emotions somewhere far beneath his surface. " _’_ _ Ma serannas _ , Merrill; I will think on what you have said."

— 

In the end, they can't acquire the ironbark and a Dalish craftsman skilled in shaping it, but a human noble with an uncomfortable interest in her People (and her, specifically, not that they end up meeting face to face) is all too happy to donate a set of scout's armor from clan Ralaferin.

(She checks it for the better part of an hour, running her hands and eyes over it, looking for any signs of it being "acquired" through violence before handing it over to Harritt to be refitted and altered.)

When Merrill puts on the blacksmith's final version, she briefly entertains the belief that the middle-aged human was secretly raised by the People. The ironbark mail is cool as it slides over her arms and legs, somehow flush with her skin. The designs embossed by the original craftsman into the leather plate are still clear after it was dyed green; not the green of the armor from her clan, but a deep forest green, almost navy in the white light reflected from the snow.

Her shawl is replaced with a clean white scarf on Josephine's suggestion, 'to signal our intention of peace'. As she adjusts it on the ride up to Val Royeaux's gates, she longs for the worn threads of her shawl. The scarf itches.

Cassandra’s surprise when their scout reports templar presence confuses her; she knows they left the Chantry, but that doesn't mean they'd just let a elvhen blood mage gain power. They've  _ killed _ templars, and while they were trying to kill them, were  _ trained _ to, it won't matter to the Order. It never has.

Some distant part of her thinks it's sad, that Cassandra could dedicate her whole life to this and not  _ know _ . But sometimes, not knowing isn't enough. Sometimes, things are so bad the only way  _ not _ to know is not to listen.

The part of her that's here is sad for the people who weren't listened to.

Merrill listens to the thin Chantry Mother rage against her and the Inquisition, and hears her gasp when they approach in that way she's only really heard when Isabela is pretending to be scandalized. Thinking of her here helps, so when  _ 'elf!' _ is flung with all the hate of 'knife-ear', she doesn't flinch.

"I claim to be no Herald," she starts with her hands raised, and she swears she can  _ feel _ Cassandra's disapproval; "my only goal is to seal the Breach: the sky being torn apart is a threat to  _ all  _ peoples." 

Despite the disagreement, Cassandra seconds her message: "We seek only to unite against our common enemy! Divine Justinia would not want—"

And then the templars March in, and Merrill only has a moment to suppress her instinctual fear before the Mother who spoke is struck across the jaw by a gauntleted fist. The woman drops like a wet sack, and Merrill— 

Merrill doesn't  _ understand _ . "Why would you do that? If you're not here for—why are you  _ here? _ "

"We came to see what frightens old women so, and to  _ laugh _ ." Men like this are who made her unafraid of men like Cullen; men like Cullen believe he is right because he believes he is good, and when he learns he is not good he ceases to be right. 

Men like  _ this _ have no concern with goodness; they are right because they have the power to make it so.

As the Lord Seeker leaves, taking his Order with him, Merrill does not hear Cassandra. She hears blood rushing in her ears, hears her heart pumping a steady beat of  _ run run run _ , and she tries to hear Isabela's voice in her head:

_ "A man hits a woman because he thinks she's weak, Kitten. He thinks she won't fight back. _

_ "That's why we always,  _ always  _ fight back." _

What she eventually hears is Varric, something sharp in his voice as he says to "leave it alone,  _ Seeker. _ " Letting the outside world back in, she sees the dwarf has put himself in front of her, the protective gesture reminiscent of the subtle way he used to do it in Kirkwall, when Fenris or Anders got particularly heated in a debate with her.

(He'd done something similar between the two men as well, in those first few years; but it was never clear which man he was protecting).

Cassandra lets whatever the issue was drop, and the group's attention is called for by a masked woman at a stall. But a detail Merrill notices as they make their way to this 'Belle' momentarily surprises her. As they are about to start walking, she realizes Varric is not the only one who has to step back into line: there is Solas, with his left foot still leaning forward, as if he was about to move to stand in front of her as well. 

Their gestures are kind, but unnecessary: she has always been able to protect herself. 

The same cannot be said of the Chantry women, who are still huddled on the wooden stage surrounding their fallen speaker. After looking at them, she hums a note, softly enough that it has the desired effect: only the other elf in their party turns his head to it. While Varric and Cassandra discuss with Belle what supplies Haven needs, she gestures to the stage and starts walking toward it before Solas can respond.

Still, she isn't surprised to see his shadow cross with hers. "I hadn't thought you would express any interest in speaking with those of the Chantry." he says, with that distant curiosity he holds whenever someone does something unexpected.

"And I don't;" she responds, wearing a smile he can probably hear in her voice, "you have some talent for creation magic, don't you? You did well enough keeping me alive."

It's quiet, and gone in a moment, but she swears she hears a chuckle; "I am able to heal, yes."

They arrive at the stage, some of the robed women visibly flinching back. "Good.  _ An'eth'ara _ , Sisters. You don't have any healers left, do you?  Hahren Solas can mend your jaw, if you'll allow."

She sees fear flash in the fallen mother's eyes, sees the instinct to refuse clash with her pain. She also sees Solas's nostrils flare—annoyance, probably—even as he steps up to be ready to do as asked.

The mother evidently chooses her pride for the moment; "Why do you offer? To have another  _ shame _ to lord over me?"

Merrill squints, as if that will let her see this woman's reasoning. "The world is at war, Mother.  _ We _ ," and she gestures between them, "are not. I don't have any interest in shaming you, just in offering a kindness."

Taking a moment to consider, the woman sags before nodding, though she watches Solas carefully as he approaches. "I am a Revered Mother, if you must know. Revered Mother Hevara."

Solas kneels in front of her, and while he raises his hand to the injury, he makes no contact as he assesses. "I don't know about  _ must _ , but it's certainly better than just 'Mother'," Merrill responds, partly to keep the woman's stare off of Solas (honestly, for people supposedly devoted to acts of charity, they receive them with quite a lot of suspicion); "if  _ you _ must, I much prefer Merrill to 'elf'."

Revered Mother Hevara has the decency to look chastised at that, not that Merrill cares that strongly: the woman can call her what she likes, as long as she doesn't say that or worse to others. A pale green emanates from Solas's hand, and Hevara flinches, from pain or otherwise. 

The healing is quick and uneventful, the Revered Mother having escaped the broken jaw most get from a templar's fist. 

Merrill offers only a shallow bow in farewell, and the mother even less. Solas has remained silent the whole exchange, and when she glances up his face is calm, maybe even pleased.

Eventually, he puts voice to the quiet: "It is kind of you to aid those who would call you monster." 

"If all they're shown is a monster, that's all they'll see," she chooses to say as they walk back to their companions. "I don't need them to like me, or apologize. But if someone as 'monstrous' as me shows them a kindness, then maybe they'll think to spare one for someone else."

Whatever response he may have made is cut short by the whiz of an arrow. On hearing it, they both freeze, and a fraction of a moment later it hits the stone mere paces in front of them. Merrill loudly doesn't think about how close it would have been had they kept walking.

The sound of it hitting catches the attention of the humans (and dwarves) nearby, and Cassandra and Varric come running. Merrill looks at it, trying to remember how long some of Varric's bolts could go before exploding. Varric seems to think that time has passed when, upon seeing something tied to its shaft, he reaches for the arrow and snaps it behind the head, picking up the rest.

Attached is a letter, and while her written common isn't perfect, the words used are simple. With that simplicity comes vagueness, but Varric explains quietly to her the small treasure hunt being asked of them.

Finding the red stashes around the city is, to her, the most fun she's had in ages. Cassandra doesn't seem to think the same, and Varric complains loudly by the third and final (as do his knees).

A messenger in Circle robes stops them as they make their way out of the markets, and while an invitation from Madame de Fer means nothing to her, it clearly rings familiar for the Seeker. "If we can entertain these… errands," she says, "then I can see no reason we mightn't accept." 

Though not clear in her words, Cassandra's interest in the prospect is unexpected enough for Merrill to pick up on, and so she agrees. "The place from the last red letter first, though. If they had us do all this, it must be something awfully exciting."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _'Ma serannas_ : my thanks, my gratitude  
>  _An'eth'ara_ : greetings, my place is safe (informal version of the greeting Josephine used)  
> remember how i said meeting vivienne and sera would happen this chapter? me neither. this chapter is almost double the usual length to make up for it, though. i guess i should note now that all of the elvish you see in this fic is an amalgamation of canon, Project Elvhen, and my own twisted needs (normally whenever it has a long rambly explanation its somethin i made up lmao)  
> this is also the first chapter that Isn't titled with a lyric from the song I of the Storm, bc i realized this fic will prolly be way too long to use lyrics from only one song; this chapter was from Ghost Adventure Spirit Orb (all songs are in my merrill playlist linked at the end of the fic)
> 
> up next: finally, actually, for real, meeting sera and vivienne. but before that, meeting Fiona, and attempting to actually give her badass self the agency she deserves. also, varric Will be getting in trouble for writing to isabela, merrill is just understandably distracted
> 
> college has started (virtually) back up again so updates are gonna be even more inconsistent, but my love for merrill has fueled me in the way no fic has before. stay safe as you can y'all


	6. I don't need anyone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for typical fantasy racism and autistic meltdown/shutdown

It's not that Merrill didn't believe Josephine when she'd said they'd be 'introducing the Inquisition to all of Thedas' in Val Royeaux, she just didn't expect all of Thedas to  _ respond _ .

As soon as the runner for Madame de Fer leaves, taking word of their acceptance with him, they head to the same gates they'd entered the city from. Which is, of course, when they are stopped for the third time. The person stopping her this time is also in Circle robes, though they look more similar to the ones Orsino had worn.

She's also an elf, tanned ears poking out from short black hair. "If I may have a moment of your time?"

"Grand Enchanter Fiona?" And now that Cassandra's given her the name, she recognizes her—not by her face, or her clothes, but by her cadence, the way she holds herself. Yes, she does appear like Fiona, the elvhen woman spoken about in the alienage when Ariani's second child came into her magic—an elf sent to the Circles who hadn't just survived, but  _ thrived _ —who became a leader of elf and  _ shemlen _ mages alike.

_ "En'an'sal'en _ , Grand Enchanter," Merrill greats warmly, the formality not biting as it would when she extended it to elders she knew would throw her to the wolves, "did word reach you from the mages who helped us in the Hinterlands?"

Fiona's face remains controlled, but there is something like a laugh in her voice; "A certain Luca found me, yes, and spoke your praises. According to their word, it was  _ you _ who helped  _ them _ ; it seems the Free Mages of Thedas owe you our thanks yet again."

Merrill feels a pleased flush rise to her cheeks; owing thanks for help freely offered is something she still doesn't agree with, but she won't pretend she isn't happy to be acknowledged. "I only helped them help themselves."

She tilts her head in acknowledgement. "Well now, we hope to return the favor: when you look to aid in closing the Breach, I invite you to look to your fellow mages." 

This, of course, has been Merrill's intent ever since she learned the Inquisition needed power to seal the Breach. A younger her might have been determined to seek out the help of her People, even knowing it would set her up for heartbreak; her People wouldn't help any force with the origins and history of the Inquisition, not until it showed its true face. Her People's suspicion is just, even as it pains her not to go to them, but they do not have the luxury of time.

As she is, she knows more ties her to others than blood and vallaslin, and a people can be found in anyone willing to act. She knows Cassandra still wishes to side with the templars (even as Cassandra wishes she didn't), so she tells Fiona she is honored (which is true) and wishes to discuss the details further (also true).

Fiona handles the non-committal acceptance with grace, as she's handled all of the proceedings, and extends an invitation to Redcliffe for negotiations. Cassandra still seems poised to interject, but the conversation is over.

" _ Dar'eth Shiral _ , Grand Enchanter." Merrill says in farewell, Fiona responding with a shallow bow and nod to wish her the same. It takes only until she is out of their line of sight for Cassandra to groan, at the same time Solas lets out a pleased hum.

She groans again as they make their way down the smooth stone path out of the city, back on route to where the mysterious notes had indicated; "We will discuss this when we return to Haven."

"Oh, I don't doubt that," Merrill responds cheerily, earning a snort from Cassandra, this time one closer to a laugh.

That there are hired guards in the dark alley meeting place is hardly a surprise, and their group makes quick work of them. In the end, the man they're led to isn't exciting  _ exactly _ , but the young elvhen archer who shoots him certainly is. 

"Ugh! Squishy one, but you heard me, right? 'Just say what!' Rich tits always try for more than they deserve." Merrill hears Varric chuckle behind her, and she can't help her own giggle as the blonde retrieves her arrow, the gallows humor comfortingly familiar. Honestly, Merrill revels in the feeling of being reminded of Isabela without the usual ache.

"So, you followed the notes well enough. Glad to see you're..." here the elvhen woman stops, eyes narrowed, taking in Merrill's appearance as if for the first time. Something uncomfortable passes over her face, but then her carefree attitude returns: "Well, the Kirkwall Jenny said you'd be all elfy; it's all good, innit? The important thing is: you glow. You're the Herald thingy."

Merrill smiles, holding up her left hand; "I do glow! Though not as much as another elf I know," and there it is again, that discomfort on the younger elf's face—were there not more pressing matters, she might investigate it. "Were you the one leaving the notes? Do you know what was going on with," she gestures to the  _ shemlen _ body on the ground, "him?"

"No idea, I don't know this idiot from manners. My  _ people _ just said the Inquisition should look at him." And there is the word again: here, at least, she knows the archer isn't referring to other elves, as it would have been 'the' or 'our' people.

She  _ had _ mentioned Kirkwall, and "Jenny"; that coupled with the notes leaves a fairly obvious answer: "You're a Red Jenny!"

"Name's Sera. This is cover. Get 'round it," she responds with a gesture to some boxes, and without waiting for a reply adds; "for the reinforcements! Don't worry, someone tipped me their equipment shed: they've got no breeches!"

_ Oh, Isabela would love her _ is all Merrill has time to think before they're plunged into battle again. She does her best to focus on the heads of her combatants, but she snickers every time she catches sight of their strange Orlesian undergarments.

With their opponents sufficiently distracted, the fight is over quickly, and two of the men willingly surrender. As Cassandra binds their hands, Sera approaches her again; "So, 'Herald of Andraste'. You're a strange one. I'd like to join."

"Is it you joining? Or The Friends of Red Jenny?" Merrill asks, even knowing she's hardly going to turn the young archer down.

"Both. No, wait—neither. Well it's… it's like this," she flounders for a moment, but Merrill gives her time to gather the words. "Red Jenny's just a name, yeah? It lets little people, 'friends', be part of something while they stick it to nobles they hate. So here, in your face, I'm Sera. 'The Friends of Red Jenny' are sort of out there. I use them to help you. Plus arrows."

Varric chimes in from somewhere behind her, probably rifling through the hired muscle's pockets. "They're unpredictable, but that's what makes them so damn hard to stamp out. We're definitely better with them on our side than not."

Merrill takes a moment, just to process all that's been said. The silence seems to frustrate the younger woman: "Look, do you need people, or not? I want to get everything back to normal. Like you?"

'Back to normal' isn't exactly what she has in mind, but she understands it coming from Sera. When people like the Chantry mothers say they want things 'back to normal', they mean they want all the  _ undesirables _ safely locked away where they don't have to think about them. When someone like Sera says it, she means she wants to go back to a state of the world she knows how to live in, knows who to fight and who to save and how to get food to eat.

"You and your 'friends' are welcome with the Inquisition." She says, ignoring yet another noise of displeasure from their human companion. Merrill offers her hand, and Sera clasps her forearm for a brief moment before breaking away with a pump of her fist in the air.

"Yes! Get in good before you're too big to like, that'll keep your breeches where they should be. Plus extra breeches, 'cause I have all these… You have merchants who buy that pish, yeah? Got to be worth something. Anyway, Haven. See you there, Herald; this will be grand!"

And with that, Sera turns, making it only a couple steps before breaking into a run, cackling and whooping into the night.

"Well! That was quite bracing, don't you think?" Merrill asks the group, clapping her hands as she turns to them. Varric smiles at her fondly, Cassandra bares the frown she usually wears, and Solas looks at her with his same quiet curiosity. The men they've captured look at her with suspicion around the gags in their mouths.

"Right; do you suppose the prisons are still open this late?"

— 

Dropping the pants-less men off at the Val Royeaux prison requires altogether much less questioning than Merrill expects (and much less than she thinks is warranted; all she has to do is mention the name of the noble who'd ambushed them and the nightshift guard they're speaking with groans, before apologizing and leading the men to a cell).

When Cassandra suggests they find a room at an inn, Merrill laughs; "Our camp is only a short walk from here! No need to waste the coin." After visibly suppressing a groan, Cassandra accepts, and they make the trek there with little event, even if Merrill hadn't been entirely honest with her estimate of the distance.

Were they back in Fereldan, or in some of the Free Marcher states, she wouldn't mind paying for a dry bed and warm food. But not here; not in Orlais and certainly not in Val Royeaux. She refuses to watch as Cassandra is addressed over her and Solas, as it is suggested by the innkeeper for the Seeker's 'attendants' to sleep in the stables instead, as elvhen servants rush by with a limp in their step or a bruise around their eye—she refuses to sleep surrounded by people who see a hand stretched out for aid and spit in it.

She wants to pretend, just for a night, that everything is safe; that the human woman sat across from her doesn't hate her for what she is, wouldn't have killed her were it not for the mark on her hand. That Varric sits between them just to be close to her, not to protect her in case the mark isn't enough. That when Solas stares into the fire, he sees a hearth and not a funeral pyre.

When it comes time for sleep, she doesn't protest when Varric lays out his bedroll in her tent (even though Cassandra looks like she wants to protest on her behalf). She assumes it's just the dwarf furthering his protective streak; if he only acted like this around her, she might take offense like she has with Solas's condescension, but silent safeguarding is just how Varric shows he cares. 

It takes her a few minutes longer than him to remove her armor, and when she is finally in only her leggings and a slip, she turns to find him sitting upright on his bedroll, looking down at two letters in his hands.

"Varric?" When his eyes flick up to her, she sees something she'd never thought to see in her interactions with him: he's nervous. Not worried for her, or afraid of being caught, but the kind of nerves a dog shows when expecting a hit.

"After you," he grasps with one hand for words, " _ woke up _ , I sent word to Isabela. I asked her to come and help."

Emotions have always confused her. When she was little, she was sure everyone else felt things less strongly than her; how could they feel as she does, and not laugh and scream and cry without stopping. Then she got older, and she was taught to hide her emotions. But it felt like her Keepers must have skipped a step, because she never learned which emotion is which.

What she feels right now is everything, all at once, without stopping. Anger and grief and love and big and small and thanks and betrayal; with Varric, with Isabela, with herself.

She doesn't decide to leave the tent but she's outside it, the green sliver in her hand sparking and glowing in its ugly brilliance. She wants to laugh and scream and cry, so she hums until she feels her teeth rattle with it. Her plain hand forms a fist, thumping her chest to remind her heart to beat. 

But her other heart is  _ there _ , in a tent in an envelope in Orlais, and it only aches the more for it. Because Merrill wants her here, of course she does, wants it as a sapling wants for rain. And Merrill wants her in the farthest corner of Thedas from here, wants it as a dying cat wants to hide.

And Varric.

_ Does he really think I can't do this? _

As soon as she thinks it, she wants to unwrite the thought. Varric has  _ seen _ her grow. He  _ knows _ she's not the girl who couldn't get through Lowtown without a ball of twine. 

_ But he couldn't trust me with my own  _ vhenan _? _

The impact of her closed fist on her chest grows faster, the sound of it echoing up through her ribs and out into the still night. Her heart and thoughts are racing each other, leaving her with nothing to do but feel it all.

She hears rustling canvas, the sound so close she's certain it's Varric, come to check on her like a newborn. And then footsteps come from behind her, strides much longer than a dwarf's, much heavier than an elf's.

"Herald… Merrill? Are you alright?" 

Considering the events of these past days, Merrill can't truly be surprised that it is Cassandra who comes to find her. She almost pretends it's Aveline instead for a moment, there to provide her awkward yet steady comfort, but if her mind were truly in the business of picturing better outcomes she'd prefer it pictured no one there at all.

A hum decides to shake itself through her beaten chest, a note interrupted in hiccups by the fist thudding through it. "No, I don't think I'm alright," escapes her lips eventually, "though I think I should be."

Because really, shouldn't she be? At the prospect of seeing her  _ vhenan _ , should her first feeling not be relief, elation? Were the world a kind place, maybe it would be. Were the world a kind place, they'd never need to part at all.

(Were the world a kind place, they never would have met at all.)

"I… What troubles you?" Cassandra asks after one too many beats, after long enough for Merrill's hum to grow. Her uncertainty is almost comforting; Merrill is, at least, not the only one on uneven footing.

"Do you think I'm weak?" she asks in return, finally turning her head to see the warrior in her peripheral. The question must unsettle her somehow, and Merrill continues; "Am I unable to take care of myself? Do I need my decisions made for me? Do I need  _ protection? _ "

Shock is what's probably on the other woman's face. Merrill isn't sure if her voice has been raised in that way that says  _ anger _ , she never really is, but whatever she managed to get across has clearly caused Cassandra to consider it, consider  _ her _ .

It takes another moment of non-silence, humming and thumping and shifting from the tent they are only a few steps away from, before the response is formulated. "No;" is Cassandra's final answer, "I may think many things of you, but there is no denying your capability. Did… Did Varric say something?"

Being able to communicate her feelings, in body and voice, has relaxed her considerably, enough that she doesn't want to snap in defense of her friend like the jaw of a mother wolf. "He tried to help me, and it made things complicated," she decides on, no judgement in her voice; "as it often does when we try to help."

Her fist has loosened, and instead of slapping her chest she lets it fall to her side, swinging in the cool night air instead. Cassandra's eyes follow it, see it brush against the edge of Merrill's slip. In quick order, she seems to make up her mind about something: "If the… Situation, with Varric isn't resolved, you may sleep in my tent. It wouldn't do for you to survive the Breach only to catch frostbite now."

If Merrill were someone else, she might laugh at that, at the sincerity behind this woman's gruff words. But the offer warms her—Cassandra is appealing to her not as a misguided blood mage, or a ditzy elf, but as another woman, underestimated by the men around her. She shakes her head nonetheless; "It'll be resolved shortly, but thank you for the concern. Sleep well, Seeker." she ends on a nod.

Cassandra's face scrunches for a moment, before nodding back; "Sleep well, Merrill; and know the offer stands." Letting her words sit for a moment, she then nods again and turns for her tent, prompting Merrill to do the same.

The light from Varric's lantern leaks through the thick canvas, and she briefly entertains the idea that Varric can see her, silhouetted behind it in all her indecision. Her hand, an open palm this time, finds its way to her chest, feeling the heart still with her, and she pulls back the flap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _En'an'sal'en_ : blessings; a formal greeting  
>  _Dar'eth Shiral_ : go safely on your journey, safe journey; a formal farewell
> 
> i felt Just a lil bad for all the internal monologue roasts of Cassandra last couple chapters but look! something approaching friendliness! yes, i know vivienne still hasn't been introduced, but fiona and sera took up the day and while I'd been planning for them to just sleep then head right out to the party, Varric's conscience was speaking to him. i hope the usage of canon dialogue in this chapter didn't bug/bore anyone too much, normally I would have changed it more but sera's introduction does such a good job of setting up her character.  
> i also wanna make a small note-while i've labeled merrill's emotional moments as autistic shutdowns or meltdowns, she isn't having them /because/ she's autistic: they're understandable emotional reactions to an incredibly trying time in her life, and autism simply effects how she expresses those emotions  
> next up: merrill and varric have their Talk, and vivienne finally gets her time to shine  
> this chapter title is from Clementine by halsey, yet another song on the merrill playlist if you wanted to check it out....


	7. a shame without a sin

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for allusions to abusive working conditions

Sitting cross-legged on her bedroll, Merrill observes her friend. Varric, tall for a dwarf, typically looks the size of a  _ shemlen _ when sitting down; he seems smaller now, most of his usual bravado gone.

A conversation they'd had in Kirkwall comes to her mind, from that first year with Hawke, when she was still so new to the world outside her clan. She'd told him he reminded her of Hahren Paivel because he told stories, and suddenly she wishes she'd had the words to say what she'd really meant. Both men didn't just  _ tell _ stories, but  _ keep _ them, holding so many stories inside there's barely room for themselves. To have that many stories, they have to  _ listen _ , and Merrill had wanted him to know he was the first person to listen to her in years.

In rare form, Varric doesn't seem inclined to start their talk, just shuffling the letters still in his hands like an unseeing tarot deck.

She's had time to process her emotions, but Varric doesn't know that, nor does he know what her emotions are—not knowing what page he's on with her is new for him, and she takes pity on him and his uncertainty. "May I have the letters?"

He starts, before dropping them into her outstretched hand with a nod. She looks over them quickly, pushing down her instinctive reaction to Varric's call for protection written so plainly, instead looking for the love that is plain there too. Her breath catches for just a moment when she reads her love's response, succinct in a way she has never known Isabela to be.

"Why tell me now?" She has questions she wants the answers to more—why did he wait until after she'd awoke to send it? Since he did wait, why not ask her? But what Varric seems to feel guilty about is the telling, so she thinks it best to clear that first.

Varric sighs, and it feels old and tired and  _ small _ . "I don't know, Daisy. I should've told you when I sent it, I should've told you when she replied… But I knew I had to tell you before she snuck into Haven."

The image of Isabela having crept into her lonely cabin in the dead of night brings a smile so bittersweet she wants to laugh with the ache of it. Seeing her, Varric nurses a grin of his own, tentative and small but there. That's good, Merrill thinks. She may be frustrated with him, he may have hurt her, but she doesn't like seeing how small guilt can make him.

"Can I…" He starts again; she's always known him to take his time with his words, not the blabbermouth others expect, but this uncertainty only seems to come in moments like this, reminders of how different they are. They care about each other, they strive for understanding, but Varric doesn't know what goes on in her head any more than she does in his. As always, he still tries to understand: "Do you not want to see her?"

"Do you not want to see Hawke?" Comes out of her mouth unbidden, and she hates the way Varric tenses, the lines in his face that had started to smooth deepening once again—that isn't what she meant. "I know you want to see him, and you want to see Fenris, and you want to see Bianca," and something warm and sad pours over him at the name, "but you don't want them  _ here _ . 

"I want to see her,"  _ I want her I want her I want her _ , "but not here. None of us want to be  _ here _ again, Isabela maybe least of all."

When Isabela had joined up with Hawke, she'd had nothing to lose. Now, now she has everything—both of them do, and the last time Merrill had an everything to lose was so long ago she's no longer prepared for the hurt

Eventually, Varric's voice breaks the memory-filled silence. "But she's coming here."

"Oh,  _ lethallin;  _ I never doubted she would. That's why I couldn't ask her to."

—

Stepping into the Ghislain Estate, the first thought that enters Merrill's mind is  _ Oh thank Sylaise Josephine insisted on new armor _ . She still sticks out like a nug amongst halla, but her leathers shine and her scarf is the same clean white of the marble. At least now she can look a proud representation of her People, even in this room of  _ shems _ who wouldn't lift a finger to do anything more than point and laugh.

She indulges the few nobles who come up to her, cooing as if at an exotic pet; pretending they're particularly capricious little ones usually gives her all the patience she needs. 

When a man launches curses at her and the Inquisition, she isn't surprised—if anything, there is something satisfying about him shucking the thin veneer of politeness the others are wearing.

"We all know this is just an excuse for political outcasts to grab power," he spits, close enough now that Merrill can smell the liquor on his breath. The nobles she'd spoken with watch on, of course making no move to defend the elf they’d been enraptured with seconds prior.

Merrill makes no effort to posture like the man before her, doesn’t stand straighter or lift her chin up to him. “I think there are easier ways for your Chantry’s Left and Right Hand to get power than leaving the Chantry, don’t you?” A murmur runs through the people gathered, some humming in agreement, others scoffing. “And unlike some,  _ I _ haven’t needed to take others down for power.” 

That gets a few laughs, and a flush spreads over the visible half of the man’s face; “I will take no moral lecture from a murderous blood mage! If you were a woman of honor, you would step outside and answer the charges!”

Just as Merrill is starting to press her nail into her palm, the male noble reaching for what could be a weapon, he is encased in a pulsing field of frost magic, effectively frozen in place with no damage to the soft tissues.

It's a powerful feat of spellwork, in both execution and social standing; the mage casting it must hold considerable power with the  _ shemlen  _ to cast at one without fearing reprisal. As a poised, elegantly-dressed human woman saunters down the marble steps, she connects her observations with what she knows of who invited her: Madame de Fer,  _ First Enchanter _ Vivienne.

After tutting at the frozen man, Madame Vivienne turns her calculating gaze to her. "My lady, you are the wounded party in this unfortunate affair. What would you have me do with this foolish, foolish man?"

The Marquis' eyes flick frantically between them makes Merrill's decision quick: "Oh, I think he's learned his lesson." Honestly, she's heard worse things from  _ within _ the Inquisition, and from what little she's learned of court proceedings she doubts he will escape from this unscathed.

Something passes in Vivienne's eyes, then the Marquis is released with a snap. There is irony in her voice as she projects, "By the grace of Andraste, you have your life, my dear. Do be more careful with it," and then he is leaving the hall with his tail between his legs.

Merrill is invited up to an indoor balcony, large windows bathing the alcove in moonlight. The windows overlook an intricately landscaped garden, and all she can think of is the servants: how long they must work, and how regularly, to maintain this feat of man-made nature. She thinks of how frequently they must scrub the marble for it to remain such a stark white, and she thinks of Orana, scrubbing the floors of the Hawke Estate until her raw skin splits at the knuckles because she's just _so_ _grateful_ _to be given work again_.

It becomes clear early in their conversation that whatever reasons Madame Vivienne truly holds for joining the Inquisition, she is holding them close to her chest. Still, beneath all her poise and veneers, Merrill can tell that, whatever it is, she  _ cares _ about it. If it truly is the return of her Circles she wishes, more opportunity for mages to seek power, or simply solidifying her own status, she can't say, but that she cares about anything at all is more than Merrill had expected to see.

Whatever she's observing of Vivienne, Vivienne is sure to be observing more—Merrill has never been the best at reading people, and to host parties like this you have to be proficient. 

After what she hopes was an appropriate lull in the conversation, she invites her into the Inquisition, and while Vivienne's smile is just as neutral as it's been, Merrill likes to think she's at least a little pleased.

"Excellent! Well, we—me and my party, that is—will be going back to Haven in the next few days, if you wanted to journey with us?" It seems the polite thing to do, inviting her along, even if that isn't Merrill's only motivation. Her reasoning is more practical: traveling together will give her ample time to fully assess her motives, as well as getting Varric's more people-savvy read on her.

"I will have an envoy contact you once I've made the necessary preparations." 

And with that, Merrill's role at the party is over. It's already winding down as she makes her exit, other party-goers shuffling past with looks of intrigue and distain. Varric is waiting for her at the gate, a position she sincerely hopes he wasn't holding all night.

There's a question in the quirk of his brows, and when she nods he breaks into a grin; "Alright Daisy! Seems we'll make a diplomat out of you yet."

The same circle mage who'd delivered the invitation has Vivienne's message the next day, and Cassandra seems eager to be on their way—whether due to her dislike of Orlais, her readiness to get back to work, or the new addition to their traveling party, Merrill isn't sure.

—

As they travel, she's impressed by how little Vivienne complains. Sure, it is obvious in her disdainful sniffs and the way she flicks mud off her white robes that she would prefer a route on paved roads, but the only thing she vocally complains of is Solas's fashion sense.

They make good time and, true to Cullen's promise, Haven is still standing when they arrive. Cassandra and Vivienne head straight for the Chantry, Cassandra reassuring along the way that they will provide "the best accommodations we have, Madame de Fer." Solas nods to her before turning to his cabin, no doubt eager to get a moment alone. And so it is she and Varric who remain, Varric looking at her as if trying to read between the lines, decipher what comes next for her. Merrill is not one of his stories, not anymore.

She still pulls him into a tight hug before they part ways—Varric to no doubt record or recite something and Merrill to… Well. She'd assumed her first duty would be to report back all that had happened to the other leaders, but Cassandra's actions made it clear that would wait. With no pressing duties, no people directly under her care, the restored Eluvian now safely in the hands of clan Oranavra, she finds herself at a loss.

While nowhere near as popular as the Hanged Man (and nowhere near as dirty, which Merrill has learned is equally essential for an interesting experience), she figures the tavern is as good a place as any to find something to do. Opening the door, she's greeted with the gentle music of a bard (the same bard she'd heard in the Val Royeaux café; Merrill supposed they did give her a few days head start). The second thing she hears is a cackling laugh, and there, in full plaideweave-glory is yet another face from Orlais: Sera.

Merrill's spotted at the same time she spots her, and Sera waves her over to an empty table. As Merrill accepts and sits down, Sera pulls out her own chair, turns it, and sits with its back to her chest. "Was wonderin' when you'd show up! So, this is it, huh?"

Confused, Merrill tries to run through what "this" is, but Sera jumps into the silence: "Oh no, it's fine, yeah? I just thought it'd be bigger." She thinks for a moment, then cuts herself off with a nervous sort of giggle. Merrill's spent enough time with Isabela to connect the dots from there, laughing along. 

"Anyway, stopping war should earn more sovereigns than this. Need things to go back to normal for coins to be flowing again: another reason the templars and mages should be sat down."

" _ Or _ another reason for mages to be free: let them earn coin and more will be "flowing" than before." It's an argument she's cribbed from Anders, one of the few Varric had been persuaded by enough to pass around.

"That's—hmm." A frown creases her young face, and Merrill gives her time to think. "But see, people'd be scared of 'em, yeah? So they stay home, don't spend, don't leave tips and Jennies can't collect."

"Then we'll just have to make mages less scary."

Sera snorts, "Good luck wi' that—wait, am I in your 'we'? Cause I'm not here to put bows on mages, I'm here for up there," she points casually at the roof, but some part of Merrill  _ knows _ her finger is pointing directly at the Breach, "where the  _ real _ questions are."

"Oh, I don't see why we can't do both!" She says with a smile, "Put bows on all the mages, stitch the sky;" Sera stares at her blankly. "The easy one first, of course."

It takes a second, but then she gets another giggle from her; "You're daft, yeah? Most people get special and lose their snerk, can't see how stupid it all is. I think I'll like you, Lady Herald. Maybe you  _ are _ a little touched, yeah?"

"It's good to have you, Sera. Now; have you found anything fun to do here? I'm  _ terribly  _ bored."

Sera, as it turns out, has found plenty of things to do at Haven. The young elf's impression of Cullen each time he turns his back gets a laugh out of the recruits he's training, which Merrill thinks is probably good for morale, and she definitely appreciates the view when they climb to the top of the Chantry building, even if tossing snowballs from it down onto an unsuspecting Chancellor Roderick seems a little mean-spirited.

As they're sliding down the mound of snow they'd used to help their assent, a young man in nondescript armor approaches them:

"Excuse me! I've got a message for the Inquisition, but I'm having a hard time getting anyone to talk to me." His accent is crisp, something about it reminding her of Fenris.

Brushing snow off her knees, she nods to him; "Feel free to tell me! I'll make sure it gets to the right person."

Snorting, Sera elbows her; "You  _ are _ the right person,  _ Lady Herald _ ." Her reminder done, she kicks at the snow, clearly having lost interest (or at least feigning it).

The young man(soldier?)'s eyes widen before he clears his throat, clasping his hands behind his back: "Right. We've got word of some Tevinter mercenaries gathering out on the Storm Coast. My company commander, Iron Bull, offers the information free of charge." Sera perks back up at the name, and while she doesn't recognize it, Merrill finds herself intrigued as well. "If you'd like to see what The Bull's Chargers can do for the Inquisition, meet us there and watch us work." 

"Your commander, Iron Bull; who are they? I'll admit the name paints a picture."

He breaks his stance with a snort—definitely a soldier at one point, but probably not any more. "He'd appreciate you saying that, ma'am. He's one of those Qunari—I, er, believe you're familiar," she simply nods for him to continue; unlike other Kirkwallers, she doesn't hold a grudge against them for the Arishohk's attack, instead choosing to view them how she views Fadefolk—people from a different culture, a different world than her, with the same mix of good and bad as can be found in any people. 

"He leads from the front, he pays well, and he's a lot smarter than the last bastard I worked for. Best of all, he's professional. We accept contracts with whoever makes the first real offer—you're the first time he's gone out of his way to pick a side."

Sera is practically vibrating with excitement by the time Merrill makes her decision: "Well, with that ringing endorsement, I don't see why we can't join you there!" She reaches out her hand to confirm it, the man starting to do the same before she suddenly draws it back: "Oh, I'm so sorry! I forgot to ask your name!"

Ignoring Sera's laughter, the young man straightens into that soldierly posture again; "Lieutenant Cremissius Aclassi, at your service ma'am." 

She reaches out again and they clasp forearms; "I look forward to seeing what you can do, Lieutenant Aclassi." Sera whoops and punches the air beside her, and Aclassi looks pleased, a flush risen to his face.

As soon as they let go, the double-doors of the Chantry are pulled open, Cassandra stepping out. "Herald!" she exclaims upon seeing them, "I was just coming to fetch you; we're to recount what happened in Orlais and plan our next steps."

"I'll leave you to it, ma'am." Aclassi says with a salute.

Sera just sticks out her tongue before running away, but the message is the same.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no elvish translations this time  
> i told you i'd finally get to vivienne! i hope this chapter did better at blending canon dialogue with original than the sera intro, i don't like relying on canon dialogue cause if you wanted that, you'd just play the game lmao  
> almost all the pre-In Hushed Whispers companions have been introduced! there's even gonna be a surprise early introduction next chapter :)  
> if ur anything like me ur desperate for isabela arriving, but its only been a couple weeks since she got the letter, and to add to travel times she had to coordinate with her crew (aka find another wlw to act as captain in her absence). she's definitely showing up pre-skyhold tho, dw
> 
> sorry for the literal month+ wait, my profs went p much straight from midterms to final projects (and then of course there's the state of the world, which as a disabled queer in the U.S. is... taxing)  
> comments fuel me (as well as ppl listening to my merrill playlist...)


	8. well, I can make this work

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Warning for canon minor character death

Really, Merrill is surprised that Cullen and Josephine are surprised when she reports allying with the mages is the only viable option. Leliana is not surprised, as that's what she's believed from the start, and Cassandra is not surprised because she has spent the hours around Merrill necessary to know that she may be polite with the former Templars of the Inquisition, but, were she given the chance to save one mage at the cost of the Templar Order, it is a decision she would make in a heartbeat.

Cullen, of course, voices his opposition, defensive of the system he'd devoted his life to even as he left it of his own volition. Having existed for less than a month, study of the rift and its magics is barely in its infancy, but Merrill was operating under the assumption that a tear in the Veil, itself a form of magic, caused by a great amount of magic, would require magic to close it.

She says as much: "We can consult Solas, but he'll probably say the same thing. The mages are the more useful, more powerful, and more—actually, the  _ only _ —willing allies; I don't see how it's much of a dilemma."

As Cullen splutters and Cassandra groans, Merrill— 

_ 'wait!' _

… Merrill hears something.

Leliana rebuts whatever argument Cullen posed, and Josephine makes a noise of agreement— 

_ 'Wait! Wait, please!' _

A quick scan of the room shows that none of the humans have heard it. It's possible it's simply too quiet for their ears, but she isn't sure it's a  _ sound _ at all.

_ 'Hello?' _ she sends out, putting a small  _ push _ behind the thought.

_ 'bright, blinding, but you… please! you have to stop them!' _

_ 'Stop who?' _

"—the templars!"

It's Cullen who says it, but Merrill feels it reverberate through whatever connection has formed. A fear grips her that is not her own, before suddenly being cut off.

_ 'that shouldn't—forge—i can't make you forget, have to  _ ** _remember_ ** _ have to  _ ** _help_ ** _ but… sorry, i'll be better' _

_ 'Forgiven. I will inform them of the danger. May we meet later?' _

_ 'it sings, but the song is  _ **_ wrong _ ** .  _ needed, numerous—i will find you' _

And the connection is gone. Cassandra is voicing her frustrations—not with the potential of siding with the mages, apparently, but with the cyclical debate between them and the templars.

As she takes a pause, Merrill calls attention to herself by clearing her throat: "The templars are not a potential ally," the former templar moves to disagree, but Merrill raises a hand to stop him, "what they  _ have  _ shown themselves to be is a  _ threat.  _ Josephine, you say we need more influence with nobles to contact the templars?" she nods; "then we'll get that,  _ alongside _ making preparation for the mages. If Commander Cullen is right, and the templars are what we need to seal the Breach, we can use them once their threat has been neutralized."

Cullen still looks disgruntled, but she can tell she's appealed to his tactical mind, and Cassandra seems more comfortable now that the plan includes both groups. 

Leliana catches Merrill as she makes to leave; "There is another matter that needs your attention: the Grey Wardens have not been seen since the Conclave."

Merrill takes in a breath; "And Mahariel…?"

At that Leliana smiles, "They still make contact; they have… Retired from the Wardens, much to the Order's chagrin." Her face sobers, "but the Order's disappearance… I hate to suspect them, and the others say I worry over nothing."

"Your suspicions have merit; we can't afford to call anything coincidence now."

"Thank you, Merrill. My agents report sightings of a lone Warden in the Hinterlands…" as Leliana gives details of where this 'Warden Blackwall' can be found, Merrill struggles not to let her mind wander.

She finds suspicion of the Wardens is much less important to her than a denizen of the Beyond making such direct contact with her, unaided by dreams and un-fractured by the Breach. Before, she would have dealt with this on her own, devoted herself to research and preparations before calling on the spirit in a secluded place.

But she has another option now; Solas has been vocal (with her) about his beliefs of spirits, and as a Fade Walker he has more experience with them than most. As soon as she exits the Chantry and her feet meet snow, she turns towards his cabin.

In a rare moment, he is not outside it, but she can hear rustling papers and see the flicker of lanterns through the windows. While she's sure he can hear the shuffle of her wrapped feet up to his door, she still wraps her knuckles against it.

"One moment," he requests, the paper sounds reaching a crescendo before stopping, and then the door is opened.

"A spirit just spoke with me," she says without preamble. Solas's eyes widen and he ushers her in.

Were Sera to have gone through with her plan to break into the cabin—something she'd been easily dissuaded of when Merrill pointed out that there was no lock on the door to pick—she no doubt would be disappointed. If Merrill were told it was Aiden's cabin, or Cassandra's, or an unoccupied one kept ready for guests, she would believe them all equally; outside of the few stacks of paper and the travel gear in the corner, there is nothing of Solas here.

As she recounts her mental conversation, she's surprised by how expressive he is. To someone unlike them, he might seem as reserved as ever, but his hands twitch even as his forehead creases, his feet shift as if expecting something other than the wood under them; in these she finds his eagerness and apprehension, and how he is being reminded of another place, another time.

When she's finished, he nods, his left hand coming up to trace his jawbone necklace in thought. "Your caution is warranted—to be able to contact you so clearly, through the interference of both the Breach and the mark, certainly requires a great deal of power. In this case, however, I believe that power comes from the spirit's clarity of purpose: from what you've described, it seems to be either Mercy or Compassion."

Merrill thinks of mages made Tranquil 'for their own good' (thinks of life coming to Karl's eyes only to beg for his death), thinks of Marethari breaking the terms of  _ vir sulevanan _ (thinks of sliding her ironbark blade between Marethari-Audacity's ribs).

"Mercy holds its own dangers," she gets out, and his excitement is tempered, that old sadness he carries welling up.

He lowers his head, "Of course." She didn't want to make him feel like this, sad and guilty; the topic of spirits is one of the few things that breaks Solas out of his careful distance, and she would never wish for him to temper his interest. But sometimes when he speaks of them it's as if he goes somewhere else, where the realities of this world don't apply.

"If I may," he tries, and she's relieved to see the guilt gone (from his face; while she can't see it, she knows it remains), "I could create a meeting ground in the Fade. A space comfortable for both you and the spirit, but one that the spirit itself cannot shape," his eyes flick to hers briefly, unreadable, "and one that could be collapsed, should they prove less than helpful."

The way he discusses shaping the Beyond, with a level of subconscious confidence that comes with decades of experience, may never cease to unsettle her. Not in a bad way, necessarily; Varric's skill with people sometimes unsettles her, but it also makes her thankful she has him to learn from.

" _ ’Ma serannas, lethallin _ ; we'll aim to make contact once we've finished our business on the Storm Coast—if this 'Iron Bull'  _ and _ this spirit are as helpful as they say, we'll be in excellent shape to meet the mages in Redcliffe." Her statement of course necessitates explaining the 'who' and 'what' of The Bull's Chargers, and she takes note of Solas's reaction to the mention of Qunari; it's hardly surprising for him to be hesitant considering his magic, but his barely-hidden  _ anger _ she'll have to keep an eye on if the Chargers are to be recruited.

— 

In her grown years, Merrill has for the most part refused to be embarrassed, but she allows some of the emotion to slip in when her first thought upon seeing the Iron Bull in action is  _ 'Creators, he's big.' _

Sera cackles as they join the fray, and Merrill can't quite take solace in her no doubt thinking the same thing. She pushes that thought aside as a barrage of flame magic is sent her way, but before she can hastily pull up a nature barrier, Solas's magic slides cool over her. After dispatching the spellbinder targeting her, she chances a look at him, his face unreadable.

When she first senses nature magic being drawn from the Beyond, she wonders when Solas had added that to his repertoire—but no, he is still launching frost and manipulating the Veil. No Tevinter mage would be caught dead wielding such  _ base  _ magic, but then who…?

The Iron Bull roars an order, kicking the Tevinter in front of him to dislodge his axe from the dead man's chest, and a wave of earth rises to block the next barrage aimed at the bulk of his Chargers. With a well-aimed shot from Sera, the last spellbinder is out, and with a clench of her fist Merrill ensnares the remaining swordsmen. 

She and the other elves in her party are still alert, hearing the creep of a prowler through the sand, and suddenly The Iron Bull is swinging his axe in a brutal ark to his right; their stealth broken, the prowler lies crumpled and still at his feet. He yanks the axe from their armor, using a wide spindleweed leaf to wipe it with more care than she'd expected. Merrill is reminded suddenly of the Qunari soldier who'd remained in Kirkwall after the attack, collecting the swords of the Antaam, so that "their souls may be buried, and their honor returned".

Lieutenant Aclassi is there, and Merrill is pleased when he reports no casualties on their side. As for her own party, Sera has already struck up conversation with some of the Chargers (giving particular attention to a dwarven woman Isabela would call 'easy on the eyes'), Solas is healing a small cut to his temple, and Cassandra has joined Bull's 'throat-cutters' in ensuring the dead Tevinters stay dead.

That leaves her and The Iron Bull, cutting an imposing figure even as he gives his Lieutenant a friendly slap on the back. Seeing no point in dawdling and letting her nervousness grow, she starts towards him; "Hello! Are you The Iron Bull?" Though he's made it clear he's the leader (and he's the only Qunari in sight), it's only polite not to assume.

He breaks into an easy grin, his good eye scrunching up; "Did the horns give me away?" She nods openly, startling a laugh out of him. "Inquisition, right? My men and I'd like to join up." He gestures with one massive arm towards a large stump and a substantial chunk of driftwood, and her guess of which is meant for who is confirmed when he sits with an audible 'thud' on the stump. Personally, Merrill would prefer to stay standing, the energy of the fight having not yet dissipated, but she knows sitting is more polite during negotiations.

The questions she asks are pretty standard, she thinks—what can the Chargers offer, what are their rates—but before she can start to finalize, The Iron Bull shifts, a brief look of discomfort, maybe, crossing his face. "There's one more thing, and you're not gonna like it: how much do you know of the Ben-Hassrath?"

"If it's part of the Qun, I'm afraid I'm only familiar with the military branch," she answers, voice just slightly sing-song.

Merrill didn't think she'd said anything rude, but The Iron Bull winces; "Fair. They're many things—secret police, reeducaters, spies…  _ We're _ spies."

"I don't mean to be rude, but I don't think spies are supposed to  _ say _ they're spies," though admittedly, her knowledge of spies comes largely from Varric, and she knows most of what he's told her is…  _ embellished _ .

He waves a hand dismissively, "A group called ' _ The Inquisition _ '? I'd be pegged eventually. Figured it was best to be upfront: I'll report back to my superiors, and in addition to the services of my boys and yours truly," he blinks very pointedly with his one eye, and Merrill realizes with no small amount of glee that he's  _ winking _ —"you'll get useful information from the Ben-Hassrath network. So," he leans back, the picture of calm, "what do you say?"

A voice that sounds suspiciously like Marethari is telling her to stop, to get as far away as possible—her own experience with the Qun supports it, the image of Ketojan burning in his own flame embedded in her mind—and yet… Whether it's his disarming honesty, the unbound mage in his company, or a spirit once again making it's preference known, something within her tells her to agree.

She shoves her hand towards him; "The Iron Bull? Welcome to the Inquisition."

He takes her offered hand, dwarfing hers, but his grip is gentle as he shakes. Another grin appears on his face, though she thinks there's something  _ more _ behind it. "Krem! Change of plans; we're celebrating on the road."

It's his Lieutenant who responds to the nickname, a whine in his throat, "But Chief, we just opened the casks! With  _ axes! _ "

Bull responds as a laugh is building in her throat; "Seal them up!" Something cold crosses over him then, and it's as if the rain has soaked her through to the bone as he spits: "You're Tevinter right? Try blood magic."

— 

The Chargers head to Haven, but they still have the missing Inquisition scouts to account for. That the location they're led to is an ambush was expected, but the hounds still fight viscously, war paint hardening their thick hides to armor. For the scouts to be dead was also expected, but grief, guilt and anger well up at their cold bodies even so.

Cassandra gives instructions on constructing the funeral pyres, delivering simple rites; within them, Merrill recognizes a piece of the Chant of Light she'd heard oft-repeated in the alienage: 

"I shall not be left to wander the drifting roads of the Fade 

For there is no darkness, nor death either, in the Maker's Light 

And nothing that He has wrought shall be lost."

She prays that something guides these souls through the Fade if their Maker does not.

Giving one more overview of the cabin their bodies were found in, Merrill finds and pockets the description of the 'Mercy's Crest'—there has been enough bloodshed, she thinks. Any chance to lessen it, she will grab with both bloodied hands.

The funeral service done, Merrill decides their business, too, is concluded. When she says so as they pack the dead scouts' effects, no complaints are raised. It is a mournful silence that accompanies them back to the main camp, Scout Harding only needing to see them to know the news. 

They start their return journey within the hour, that silence a fifth companion as they ride.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translation:  
>  _vir sulevanan_ : no direct translation, but refers to the entitlement of the Dalish to a property of their people, for an errand they must perform  
>  _'Ma serannas, lethallin_ : My thanks, friend (lethallin denotes a "very close and dear friend", but here merrill is using it to denote not that level of closeness, but her level of gratitude)
> 
> fall quarter is over! i have been (temporarily) freed from the collegiate system! did I genuinely forget about Blackwall still not being introduced? maybe! i was just so caught up in introducing my favorite inquisition character Cole! i don't like how little you get of him if you side with the mages, so I handwaved some game logic and here he is  
> Bull is Also one of my favorites but bless him, interacting with a blood mage is bringing up a Lot of triggers (not that he'll let that slip).  
> Next up: merrill and Solas fight Again, meet n greet with Blackwall, and first (third?) contact with the free mages is made


	9. have you any dreams you'd like to sell?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warning for social isolation

Hooves tracking through slick mud and the occasional skitter of unseen creatures are the only sounds that accompany her. The oppressive silence had not abated once they'd made camp for the night. After a restless sleep, filled with half-remembered visions, she took her bray Forder to scout the path ahead alone. Light from the sun had barely overshadowed the stars when she left camp, and Solas was the only one awake. When she'd greeted him, a flurry of emotions passed over his face before he turned away, giving her nothing but a stiff nod.

So she rides at an aimless trot, dismounting if she sees a useful plant or tracks she doesn't recognize. Ellas had been so excited to point out animal tracks once he'd trained enough to spot them; she wonders if it excites them now; if they'd shared the knowledge with his fellow Wardens, or kept it a secret joy for himself. She doesn't know if they could have been called friends, but Mahariel was the person she'd been closest to in the clan, and the only one not around her long enough to have their image of her tainted.

Remembering him reminds her of the Warden they still need to find, and she turns her horse towards camp with the press of a leg. The sun is truly risen now, bathing her path back in its warm glow, but Merrill knows it will not have thawed the mood of the party.

She talks only with Sera on the rest of the journey back to Haven, and even that is sparing; Sera is angry at the deaths of their scouts, conflicted at the reveal of the Iron Bull's allegiances, and she doesn't want an audience as she works through those emotions. She'll stay silent for hours of the trip, then let out a growl and dismount, saying she needs to "shoot a bunch of arrows in summat."

Cassandra is taciturn to begin with, and performing the funeral rights no doubt reminded her of those lost at the Conclave (and the many lives to be lost before they're through). But Solas… Merrill isn't sure, exactly, but she thinks his silence is less from grief or anger at the situation, and more a specific anger with _her._ He carries the odd conversation with Cassandra, trades jabs with Sera when she's spoiling for a fight, and hasn't said a word to her since they'd moved inland from the coast.

And Merrill is _frustrated._ Their interactions so far have been characterized by working past differences in perspective, talking through disagreements and coming to understand each other. To not tell her what she's done, to shun her like this when they had made so much progress—she doesn't _understand._

_(It never took much for them to turn on you, did it?)_

The part of her that has learned to dull the sharp edges of others knows she should go to him, temper whatever part of him she's enflamed again but. Why should she? Why is it always _her_ that needs to shed her shirt for a lashing, fold herself into something small and exposed so that she isn't a _threat._

Saarebass. 'Dangerous thing'; those of Kirkwall and Fereldan share more with the Qun than they'd like to admit. Everyone she's met has seen an _it_ in her, a monstrous naïve _thing_ to be handled or changed. And so she's crafted a _her,_ a sweet and submissive girl who smiles and says sorry and _speaks_ when _spoken to._

The world does not need _her_ , no more than it needs _it._

Solas can shun Merrill like a child all he wants; it will only serve to prove that she is not. 

— 

Cullen is paled at the news of the Iron Bull's affiliation, but is happy with his and his Chargers' substantial addition to their forces (that he finds more comfort in someone willing to bind and leash a _dangerous thing_ is something Merrill considers, even if Cullen himself does not).

Josephine is perhaps the only one truly unsettled by the information, convinced it will lead to international uproar until Leliana reassures her that no news of Iron Bull's Qun role will reach the public. Leliana could almost be described as excited by Bull's presence, were it not for a certain hardness in her brow. Merrill doesn't envy him for what that hardness means.

Despite Varric urging her only semi-sarcastically to take a break, Merrill requests that preparations for their next trip to the Hinterlands be done before the week is out, and the leaders need only look up at the angry sky before they're agreeing. 

That Cassandra has to join her in Redcliffe goes unquestioned _(dangerous thing)_ but the Seeker does raise an eyebrow when she petitions for Solas' presence. Cullen suggests Vivienne instead, "if another mage is needed", but Josephine shoots the idea down before Merrill has to; one mention of 'Orlesian Mage politics' and he quickly concedes. None of the leaders seem keen on Varric's presence (except Cullen, perhaps, as it means his absence from Haven), but his point of knowing the King of Ferelden is difficult for anyone to refute. 

Merrill is happy to travel with him again, not just in spite of their recent disagreement, but because of it. He'd opted out of the Storm Coast with something to the effects of not wanting to 'disrupt the negotiations', and Merrill knows it was really due to the complicated anger, guilt, and fear he holds from the siege of Kirkwall—but she still missed him, the oppressive silence only more pronounced with his absence. Now will be a chance for them to settle back into each other; they've spoken the words of apology and forgiveness, but they must now do the acts.

Solas hasn't sought an apology, nor does he seem inclined to seek forgiveness. Once the details of the Redcliffe trip have been squared away (and once Leliana has slipped her a map with Warden Blackwall's last reported location), she chooses to deliver the information to Solas herself. Her ears pick up the scratching of quill against paper from outside his door, its pace frantic. She knocks, and the sound stops, then he gets up and opens the door without a word.

It would take her hours to understand what his expression means, his body stiff from head to toe and—and she doesn't have _time_ for it, for any of this tiptoeing around him. "Are you still willing to facilitate my meeting with the spirit? We'll be leaving for Redcliffe within the week, so if you're not I need to know now if I'm to have time to prepare."

He blinks, then gestures to let her in, "What ritual would you prepare, were I not to 'facilitate'?" He's curious, but not in the bright and close way he is about spirits. It's as if she's an ant, Solas mildly interested in whether she avoids the puddle, or drowns.

She snaps down on the urge to refuse explanation, not out of politeness but out of discomfort with the urge itself. Knowledge is not something to be jealously guarded. "It's simple enough, though time consuming; I imbue a mirror with transitory magic, place it where the Veil is thin—nearly anywhere, here—and invite the spirit to speak through it."

A more genuine curiosity creeps through, almost as if in spite of himself: "Imbue—you do not enchant it?"

"I wouldn't want to create a permanent channel, or one that could be opened again; the silver in the mirror when combined with lyrium and Arbor Blessing is enough to create it, but the magic exhausts the lyrium in a matter of minutes. In essence, it's as close to enchantment as a glyph on the ground."

"I've not heard of a ritual such as that among the Dalish."

There are many responses she could give to that. She decides on a truth, if not a whole one; "It isn't Dalish—or at least, not entirely. I got the idea while studying an… Elvhen artifact. To create the channel, I contacted a clan near Rivain more welcoming of spirits who'd performed similar rituals with bodies of water." For a moment, she is lost in the exchange of ideas, the thrill of sharing knowledge with a willing mind. But reality, as always, brings her back down to itself. "As you can imagine, the ritual takes time and energy to prepare, and we don't exactly have much of either to spare. So. Can you do what you offered, construct a meeting place in the Fade?"

The genuine interest he'd been showing more and more of diminishes, leaving a certain… Resignation in its place. "If it pleases you, I can have it prepared for tonight."

His phrasing is strange, like a bitter servant. Surely he realizes how little power she has here—the Herald is revered by some, sure, but Merrill is an elvhen blood mage, one misstep away from Tranquility. Her requests are listened to because she's a figurehead, someone to be given just enough freedom to be pacified. Solas is listened to because he's earned the leaders' _respect,_ and he is old and learned enough to know that of the two, his is the type of power to last.

" _Ma Serannas, Hahren,_ " the qualifier bites at her, as she'd resolved not to sooth his wounded pride, but she hopes it serves as a reminder of their true positions, "I don't want you to overextend yourself, but tonight would be ideal; Ambassador Josephine has promised to go through etiquette and negotiation tactics with me tomorrow, which Leliana told me is an all-day affair."

That brings a whisper of a smile to his face, and he nods his head, "It wouldn't do to keep the Lady Ambassador waiting. I will see you tonight then, _Gyalan._ "

— 

She'd expected Solas to come get her when he was ready, or send a messenger for her. Instead, one moment she is resting her eyes after her evening meal, and the next she is opening them to a world of soft and shimmering green. 

Distance is fluid in the Beyond, Solas some ways away from her, raising both hands to erect iridescent walls. Already tall for an elf, he looks _larger_ here, not too-big for his body as he'd been at the first funeral, but as a man with a permanent slouch standing fully for the first time.

When the walls solidify, she realizes they are not walls at all; metal lattice stands tall, curving to meet itself in a some, with ivy and other climbing plants interwoven, grown so thick that their metal frame is all but invisible. The structure is large enough to be comfortable, but no bigger than the one-to-two-person cabins of Haven. A small open archway serves as the door, and the ever-present light of the Beyond is warmer here. It is, in a word, _cozy._

Finished with his task, Solas turns to meet her, and he is calm. This is not his practiced blankness, not the sureness he wields in battle; he looks serene, in his element in the most literal sense. She finds much of her frustration at his avoidance falling away, admiring the intricacy of his work and his confidence in a place still foreign to her. "It's beautiful. Is it alright if I call to the spirit now?"

He looks around the space once again, doing _something_ to the sea of magic around them that makes it all shimmer, then nods; "You may begin."

Calling on her magic is surprisingly easy in the Fade, but she knows with that ease comes greater unpredictability. Making contact with a spirit, one that's already contacted her, however, barely counts as magic, and that ease makes it as smooth as breathing.

_You said you'd find me. May I find you here, now?_

"Secretly seeking, so often a sacrifice. You didn't have to; I could find you there."

Standing before them is the form of a young man, oversized clothes hanging on a narrow frame, a wide hat covering most of a pale face. Merrill interacts with the Fade instinctively, pulling at tendrils to find bad intent. The Fade around the spirit, most likely part of the spirit itself, pushes gently in response, sending only one feeling back:

"Compassion," Solas states, with no small amount of wonder. "It is rare to meet a spirit of your kind, especially in these lands."

Compassion's head tilts, one of their eyes half-visible; "You knew many once, gone now like all the rest. But no, some of them aren't gone, just—" they cut off abruptly, a frown peeking out from under their hat. "I can't see more. I want to help, but it's distant, dampened."

Solas smiles like a patient _babae,_ but here the pain is louder than his face, "It is alright; we called you here to see if you could help further, by aiding us in helping others."

"The mages," they fill in, "hundreds of lives of hurt. I tried to help them, but I was wrong. You'll do better, you have to."

"But you wanted us to go to the Templars," Merrill interjects. She'd wanted to interject when Solas named them as "Compassion"; the drive for it is there, yes, but they seem to encompass more. The spirit doesn't seem to mind it though, and she can always ask them later. "Do the Templars need help?"

" _No,_ " and there is that something more, a hardness to them, "yet _yes,_ help from _themselves._ They _hurt_ people, and _it_ wants to make it worse, singing a song similar but twisted, corrupting. You have to stop them!"

As seems to be their nature, the spirit's answer has only raised more questions. She chooses to focus on the piece she remembers them bringing up before: "This song; what is it? How has it been corrupted?"

When they respond, the spirit's voice is strangely distant, sounding confused and scared: "Knight-Captain said it's better, it'll make us stronger, but I see it in his eyes. Maker, why is it _red?_ "

The only coherent thought Merrill can form is _it's a good thing Varric isn't here._

She wasn't there when they found the idol in the Deep Roads, but she's watched Varric tend to Bartrand over the years, fought against Meredith and her corrupted sword. She saw it growing from the Breach, more parasite than mineral: Red lyrium. 

"Is that why you contacted me? Because I've seen it before?" Her voice is melodic, each word a different note in her own off-kilter song. 

The spirit shakes their head, hat flopping; "Blindingly bright before the Breach—it's because you _care._ You help the hurts, even those who hate, and you _stop_ who does the hurting."

And _oh,_ she thinks, _if only that were true._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _Gyalan_ : daring one, audacious one (lit. "one who dares")  
>  _babae_ : dad, father
> 
> okay Yes i did choose that nickname from solas Entirely bc i will never get over Merrill's demon being audacity like Wow thats so good. If Ellas Mahariel (aka the warden)'s pronouns seemed a lil confusing, he uses he/they. If cole's pronouns were confusing, he is gonna go by he/him in this fic, he just hasn't properly introduced himself yet, and Merrill would find it odd to use gendered pronouns for a spirit (cole, at least in my interpretation, is comfortable w any pronouns that aren't 'it', as they signify personhood more than gender to him)  
> i definitely Was planning on getting a bit ahead writing this during my winter break, i swear, but then I finally caved and bought witcher 3,,,,,, classes start back up tomorrow so expect the same inconsistent schedule lmao. next up: Actually meeting blackwall i promise, and the second-first meeting with Fiona. As a little tease, her role is going to be Different from canon :)


	10. and the White Knight is talking backwards

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings for brief mention of what happens if Merrill is brought along for Night Terrors, mild demon gore/body horror, and canon indentured servitude

Waking from their meeting isn't quite the same as waking from dreams. Sleeping normally, she comes to awareness gradually, whatever she's dreamt dissolving away (excepting when she's jolted awake, the trappings of her dreams tangling with Isabela's hidden whimpers, her body tense and still against her. The routine of rousing and comforting requires no exchanging of words, for either of them.)

It instead goes like this: one moment, Merrill is thanking the spirit for their help, coordinating a meeting with them and Inquisition agents near Therinfal—and the next, her eyes open and she stares at her cabin's ceiling. She remembers the sensation from her last Fade-Walker experience, but not feeling the echo of Hawke's blade in her belly makes waking this time feel leagues better than the last. Stepping to her window, she finds the sun still young in the sky, earlier than Solas would normally wake—and it was his waking that woke her, she thinks, though she isn't sure what woke the normally late-rising elf. 

While she doesn't exactly thrill at seeking him out again with still no apology or explanation for his former silence, her intellectual curiosity wins out (she pointedly does Not think about how it  _ always  _ seems to win out).

He's standing outside his cabin as she nears it, looking like he ought to have bed head had he any hair, but Merrill recognizes his version of a smile when she waves in greeting. With Solas, she feels no need for the small talk others expect, so she jumps right into her questions: "Why did you stop the dream when you did? Unless you didn't stop it, just woke  _ me  _ up, but I don't think you'd wake up this early if you were planning on spending more time in the Fade—the  _ Fade!  _ The Beyond! Oh, it's been quite a while—I have my dreams, of course, and they've been much more tangible of late, but it's something else entirely with a Dreamer. Is it always so easy for you to shape it, or…"

She trails off, realizing abruptly that this is the longest she's talked without interruption to anyone here; curious, how something so ingrained in her has been pushed down to navigate these people, this post-Breach world. Curiouser still is that Solas hasn't stopped her. He blinks perhaps more than needed, his hands unclasp from behind him, but nothing says 'annoyed' (while it might surprise some, she's gotten quite good at spotting annoyance; lots of practice, after all).

When it's clear she isn't continuing, he lets slip a smile more noticeable to others; " _ On dhea _ to you as well,  _ Gyalan _ . You are right that you woke first, but only by a matter of seconds; I wanted to preserve the space in the Fade, should we need to contact Compassion again. I am curious as to what you mentioned of your dreams; did this change occur after the Conclave?"

Merrill's surprised how well he listens (when he chooses to). "Yes, and it certainly wasn't the change I'd expected: some turbulence, sure, nightmares and the spirits and demons they attract—but that's the strangest part, there  _ haven't _ been spirits, none of any kind. I'm not proud enough to think it's my own abilities keeping them away, so it must be—"

"—The mark," he finishes, a grimness to his voice she hadn't expected. But the bright curiosity is woven in, too; "We should discuss this further, and I would study the mark further as well if you are amenable. For now, however, I believe you've duties to attend to."

She wrinkles her nose at his reminder and the playful grin he accompanies it with; "Of course I do. We'll have time on our way through the Hinterlands though, and I'll hold you to it  _ Hahren _ ." Putting a mocking emphasis on the honorific gets a huff of breath out of Solas that could be a laugh, and in comparison to his pointed silence, she feels it's a victory of sorts.

He is of course correct: despite the still early hour, as soon as she makes her way to the Chantry a worker is directing her to Josephine's office. The education the Ambassador has planned is just as extensive as Leliana implied, going into great detail of the nuances of Ferelden and Orlesian negotiation, as well as memorizing a detailed account of Fiona's history, from slave to warden to leader of the rebellion. It's much more in depth than any of Varric's "normal people talking" lessons, and she would be lying if she said she understood it all, but she does her best to reassure her:

"Fiona is a hero to city elves, mages, slaves, and the Dalish alike; I couldn't find a single place in myself to disrespect her,  _ Lathuil'ain _ , don't worry." The endearment slips out, and Merrill wants to curl up in herself. Not in the embarrassed way that Josephine is, blushing and tilting her head, but as if to ward off the realizations it brings. First, that the last person she'd used it with is dead; Ghilen, the elected  _ Hahren _ of a Starkhaven alienage, just as gentle as her name would suggest. Merrill called her  _ little peach _ for her sweetness, and she would blush just as Josephine does now.

Second, that these people she's been put at odds with, agreed to work with only to mitigate their damage, have wormed their way into her heart regardless, and her heart is so big and lonely that she can't even regret it.

—

Haven's workers have the supplies for the Hinterlands ready within four days of the request, and Merrill makes sure to slip them what little coin she'd made trading that first time at the Crossroads. One or two look suspicious of the offer, but Aranhen breaks her nervous formalities to grasp her hands in thanks, her youthful grin wide and genuine.

As Solas, Cassandra, Varric and her make their way through the gates into the training yard, The Iron Bull jogs up to them (at a speed a smaller man might call a sprint). "Hey, Boss! Looks like I'm coming with you."

While she's sure he's addressing Cassandra, she can't help but chime in: "Orders from Par Vallen? Keeping an eye on the mages?"

Varric looks at her as if she's chosen the worst possible combination of words, and Solas' face pinches, though he shifts as if to move in front of her. She pushes their reactions aside as Bull rubs the back of his head; "From Lady Nightingale, actually, though I can't say back home doesn't want me to keep their eye on the rebellion too." He breaks into a broad smile, that face Varric uses to open people's ears, mouths, and coin purses. "Don't worry," he adds, leaning forward like Hawke does to show 'we're all friends here' _ ,  _ "I know how small negotiating rooms are; Nightingale wants me scoping out the rest of Redcliffe with her agents while you guys talk."

Then something shifts again in his face or his body, and Merrill thinks whatever it is might be the closest she's seen to 'The Iron Bull' so far: "And getting to meet a Grey Warden on the way? I wouldn't miss it."

"Psh! I would," comes Sera's disembodied voice, Merrill's ears twitching as she tries to place her—ah. A shape of yellow and red fabric peeks through the gaps in one of their carts' coverings. Seconds later, her mop of uneven blond hair is poking out.

Cassandra groans, pinching the bridge of her nose: "I suppose  _ you _ are coming as well?"

"Just hitching a ride, Ser Startchy Breeches, calm yer tits," Sera calls back, scooting to sit in the corner of the cart, resting her arms across either side. "Think the Jennies need more contacts this side of Ferelden; harder to complain ‘bout nobles when there's no-one to complain to, and that just means there's even more complaints to be heard! I think."

Varric shrugs, before tossing his pack into the cart and climbing in, taking the opposite corner; "Guess this turned into a family affair."

Sera laughs, "Ew! That make you the Daddy?"

"Do I  _ look _ responsible enough for kids?"

Groaning again, Cassandra starts to mount the cart-horse, Merrill following suit with her Forder; "The only thing you are responsible for, Varric, is several crimes."

"How dare you, Seeker! Don't forget international incidents!"

And so they make their way out of the Frostbacks; in a rare display of stillness from her, Sera stays in the cart for the first full leg of the journey. Bull and Solas walk alongside it, and Merrill's horse pulls the non-passenger cart. After their first rest, Cassandra offers to trade places with Solas, who accepts, and Sera hops down to weave aimlessly around them as they travel, diverting off into the woods or jogging ahead of them occasionally, but always circling back before too long.

She parts from them for the final time when they reach the Crossroads, talking some poor trader into giving her passage to West Hill. Merrill knows she's much more accustomed to traveling through towns alone than Merrill was at her age, but she still slips some leftover bannocks wrapped in cloth into her pouch, which Sera whoops at, and tells her the name of an alienage 'Keeper' she knows in the area, which the younger elf does her best to ignore.

Warden Blackwall's last recorded location is now less than a quarter-day's ride away from them, and Varric is the only one to complain when she suggests continuing on, to which she chimes: "Nonsense  _ lethallin;  _ after sitting in the cart all day you need to stretch your legs!" 

Having turned over their mounts to the care of Inquisition workers in the area, all of them make the journey on foot, and while Varric may not enjoy it, Merrill's horseback-tight muscles appreciate the hike. As they get closer to the lake their Warden was spotted at, more and more bandits seem to come out of the woodworks, opportunistic men looking to prey on refugees straying too far from the path. Dislodging her staff blade from one such bandit's chest, she crests a final hill to see a sizable lake, a group of humanoid figures visible on the opposite shore. 

Varric is the first to make it to her side; "Ten coppers that that's our man?"

"I'd say 'one way to find out', but that's not quite true," she responds; "I guess of the couple ways we could find out, the  _ easiest _ is probably just to ask."

"Indeed," Cassandra finishes, starting her march through the lake's shallow end ahead of them. Bull follows suit, but Solas joins her and Varric in skirting the water. The group of  _ shemlen _ they come upon look similar to the villagers living around the Crossroads, and they're being commanded by a tall man in dark armor and a feathered helmet.

She's never been adept at finding the lulls in speech when it's acceptable to interrupt, so she just calls to him and hopes he doesn't mind: "Warden Blackwall?"

When he turns she's met with a face full of beard (were she a few years younger she might've laughed aloud at it); "How do you know that name?" Before she can respond, an arrow sings from somewhere behind her, and would have hit probably-Blackwall square in the face if he didn't raise his shield, embedding it into the wood with a thud.

They all individually decide that proper introductions can wait until after the fighting. Honestly, the men they fight are more similar to those fighting alongside them than the bandits they'd faced, holding swords like pitchforks and wearing more patches than armor. It's hardly enjoyable, but they came intent to kill. The fight is over quickly.

Probably-Blackwall gives his 'recruits' a post-battle speech, but something about it feels off, like he's delivering it to someone else,  _ for _ someone else: "Good work conscripts, even if this shouldn't have happened, they could've—well, thieves are made, not born." And with that, he dismisses them back to their homes.

"I didn't think conscription to the Wardens  _ could _ be temporary," she asks once the farmers have left.

He huffs what is probably a laugh, but she can't really tell through the beard; "Only 'conscripted' them to give 'em some training; Arl hasn't sent any men to protect the villages since the war broke out. But who are you?" He looks them over, and she can't tell which of their… Eclectic group is more surprising, "You're no farmers, and doubt the Arl sent you. Why do you know my name?"

Beside her, Varric prepares to step in, but Cassandra answers first in her blunt way: "We represent the Inquisition, seeking Divine Justinia's killers and a way to seal the Breach. Where are your fellow Wardens?"

He shifts like a  _ da'len _ caught sneaking  _ aen'bradhe _ ; "I don't know, Weisshaupt? We're normally hard to find when a Blight's not on, aren't we?"

From her side, Varric takes the chance to jump in: "Hard to find, sure. Completely disappearing when the sky cracks open? A little unusual."

Blackwall seems to harden at that. "The Wardens wouldn't—no, you're investigating, so you don't know."

"You're right: we don't know," Merrill agrees, "which is why we came to find you. You really haven't seen any other wardens?" In a last-ditch effort, she adds: "Warden Mahariel, maybe?"

His shock is palpable: "The Warden-Commander? I've… I've never had the honor."

Merrill sighs, "Thank you for your time, then.  _ Dar'eth Shiral _ ." Any other time, she might wait for Cassandra to declare their business finished, but it seems fairly clear they won't get more out of the man.

She's only just turned back to the path when he asks to join them. Merrill may not hold the hero worship some mages do for the Grey Wardens, her connection to Ellas leaving her with a jumble of conflicting feelings on the order. Still, what little she's seen of this warden shows a competent commander who still holds empathy for his opponents: a rare combination.

After glancing at Cassandra and receiving a nod, she sticks out her hand, almost hitting him in the chest with it; "Welcome to the Inquisition!" He grasps her forearm as she does his, and his grip is firm, none of the hesitance she expects from those who don't know her (and from some who did).

Cassandra then explains their mission in Redcliffe, and Blackwall volunteers to fill a similar function to Bull, as well as trying to find information on why Arl Teagan has left. He then has to ask who 'Bull' is, joking that he "should've known" on getting his answer, before grasping forearms with the Qunari as he did with her.

This necessitates a round of introductions, and Merrill can't help but watch his eyebrows dance at each new introduction. Next is Cassandra, and Merrill can swear on a blush under his beard when she expresses an admiration of 'the honor amongst Wardens'. Solas's introductions are brief but pleasant, Blackwall remarking on the uniqueness of his magic. After Varric introduces himself to a bout of laughter and teasing autograph request, he gestures to Merrill with a flourish: 

"And  _ this _ , is Merrill: friend to the Hero of Ferelden, Champion of Kirkwall, and Andraste herself."

"How long have you had that one Varric? Did you workshop it?" She says, embarrassed and sing-song but mostly fond. Varric clutches dramatically at his heart, and Blackwall… Well. He looks a bit like he's been told the strange Dalish elf in front of him is the herald of his prophetess. To his credit, his mouth only stays open for a second, and his eyebrows are only a little too-high as he shoves out his hand as if greeting her again.

"Honor to meet you Herald. Merrill. Ma'am."

He doesn't stay strange around her for long, Bull and Varric working together to loosen him up on the journey to Redcliffe. Varric includes her in the conversation every once and awhile, and she occasionally throws questions of her own at him: if he's met any elven wardens, or anyone from a Dalish clan, and what their reactions to his beard were. That question in particular gets him to tell a raucous story of stumbling half-drunk into Dalish hunting grounds as a teen, the hunters who found him—being young men themselves—only interested in knowing where he'd gotten his drinks.

And like that, they make the trek in short order, the guard towers of Redcliffe's wall soon peeking up over the horizon. As soon as they're rounding the corner that should put them at its gate, however, three things seem to happen at once: in the gate's direction, Merrill hears commotion; a soldier of some kind runs past, yelling at them to do the same; and the mark in her hand flares, green and angry. She then anticipates the rift they run up to, but as a Terror demon claws itself up from the earth in what looks like slowed time, and she herself moves quickly enough to pierce its core with her staff, only to find the magic she tries to channel through it move slow as sap, it's clear this rift is different from those they've faced so far.

Cassandra is calling to Solas for an explanation between lighting-fast blows, The Iron Bull is grumbling something about 'demon-magic-crap', and Terror winds its claws around her staff and  _ pulls _ , shoving the weapon through its back to get closer, close enough she'd feel its breath on her face if it had any.

**_alone again you'll be you'll be alone again they'll leave you'll be—_ **

She yanks the staff with her right arm, tugging it and the spirit out of slowed time, and her magic finally comes through, filling its sickly green core with entropy black as night, forcing Terror to consume and be consumed by its own mindless fear.

Its energy spills back to the Beyond, and Merrill engages the wraiths remaining, never moving from her spot lest her magic be slowed again. The others seem to adapt to the time alterations as well; when the rift spits out yet more wraiths, Solas uses the quickened time near him to speed the stone fist he slams into two of them, its increased velocity felling both with the blow.

Even after she closes the rift, the mark spits and sputters, and the magic she senses around them makes it clear the disturbance in this area is far from resolved. The same soldier who ran past them orders the gate opened, and an Inquisition scout runs through to meet them.

"Herald; we've sent word, but you should know: no one was expecting us."

"This is ridiculous," Cassandra interjects, "The Grand Enchanter invites us herself, yet does not prepare?"

Solas walks up to them, having stayed just outside to study the remains of the rift. "It seems unlikely she would forget; any superiority it might convey would hardly be useful for negotiations, as Fiona certainly knows."

An elven mage runs up to them then, and Merrill struggles to restrain herself at what he reveals. Their scout tells them where negotiations will take place, and she can only nod in thanks and dismissal.

As they walk further into the village, Cassandra is the first to speak on what the mage said: "A Magister? Has Fiona truly stooped so low as to ally with  _ Tevinter? _ "

Solas says something about desperation and folly, Varric mumbles, "not like it's the first time," and The Iron Bull spits something in Qunlat. Blackwall stays silent, and Merrill decides then and there that he's the only good one here.

"Enough," she says, her voice carrying the echo of a Keeper's order, "we know nothing of what deals have been made, if any. What we  _ do _ know is that a Magister is sitting in these peoples' tavern, and I'm none too keen on leaving him there."

Villagers shy away as they approach, whispering things relieved and afraid. She listens, even as it grates, for anything of what happened. What little she gets is nothing good.

The tavern sits lifeless on a hill, no sounds of drink or laughter, few of the people even willing to go near. Merrill walks to its door and does not stop, pushing through it. 

Inside is a Fiona that contrasts starkly with who Merrill met in Val Royeaux, and yet remains identical. On first glance, she is the same woman, but cowed; wearing standard robes instead of the white of her rank, rich tawny skin dulled, head bent in pre-emptive submission. But as she spots them she stands, and subtly moves her head in a way the mages with her move in response to, rolling something on the table up in vellum. Her head is lowered again when she greets them, but for a moment Merrill sees the Grand Enchanter she'd met, the Fiona that fits the stories. 

"Welcome, agents of the Inquisition," she says, with nothing that sounds like recognition; "I had heard the Herald and the Champion's Merrill were one in the same, but I admit—"

"Did Luca speak with you? They and the other mages near the Crossroads?"

Fiona looks surprised when Merrill first interrupts, but something  _ other _ flashes over her face at the question; "... No, I had them directed to a stronghold. I take it you met them?"

Merrill shakes her head, stepping forward; " _ You _ met them, Grand Enchanter. And you met  _ us _ , in Val Royeaux; you suggested an alliance." Her voice is shaking, or at least she thinks it should be from her fists trembling at her sides.

Again, that  _ other _ shows on her face, and Fiona shakes her head as if to dislodge it. "Whoever, or  _ whatever _ , brought you here, the situation has changed;" she says, and the  _ other _ is replaced by an aura of authority, but one different from what she'd wielded with the mages. It's  _ off _ , obviously so, even to Merrill. "The free mages have already…  _ Pledged _ themselves to the services of the Tevinter Imperium."

"I understand you are afraid," Solas begins, and that is enough for all her companions who stayed for the negotiations to join in, chastising Fiona like a child.

She remains strangely unaffected by their comments; "As one indentured to a Magister, I no longer have the authority to negotiate with you."

Then she locks eyes with Merrill, right as heavy footsteps can be heard approaching the tavern by the elvhen in the room: " _ Dar'eth Shiral _ , Merrill."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _On dhea_ : good morning  
>  _Gyalan_ : daring one, audacious one (lit. "one who dares"). has become light-hearted among the dalish for the most part, akin to exaggeratedly calling someone "so brave"; during Elvhenan, a much more formal and genuine title/compliment, akin to calling someone brave and daring in a culture that strongly values those traits  
>  _Lathuil'ain_ : little peach; term of endearment for a kind friend  
>  _aen'bradhe_ : (lit. "sticky pastry"), a dalish sweetbread glazed with syrup or honey, basically dalish sticky buns  
>  _Dar'eth Shiral_ : go safely on your journey, safe journey; a formal farewell 
> 
> EDIT: I've gone through the whole fic and updated/altered some words and dialogue (mostly changing the spelling I chose for elves as a species from lowercase "elvhen" to the canon "elven"; Ive grown to like the idea of the dalish dropping the 'h' as the language evolves over time, but I've also changed some of Merrill's dialogue to be more in character)  
> enjoy this looooong (for me) chapter with a bit of a cliffhanger! oooo what's up with Fiona? something's Different! I Wonder What It Is (if u want the Tiniest hint, go back and read her and Merrill's first conversation). I recommend listening to White Rabbit by Jefferson Airplane (where I got this chapter's title) for all of the redcliffe stuff, its nice and fittingly trippy!  
> but before that, we got some sillies! sera I miss you already, merrill and the advisors (aka me) just couldnt justify her coming with for the mages (or for the templars, but shh spoilers) and there was no way she'd just wait around in Haven.  
> I told you id finally get to blackwall! we love a himbo, and merrill loves his ability to shut up. And Bull! havent gotten to show him at his best since, yknow, mages, but hes trying!  
> merrill is... stressed. she is freaked and geeked. magic breaking the rules, the terror demon, and A Fucking Magister Enslaving Her Idol are not helping lmao but she's still more on top of it than most of the ppl in the room
> 
> Next Up: Merrill attempts to smile Alexius to death, there's a party in a chantry and all the gays are invited, and Plans Are Laid


	11. give me something to break with my fists

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> warnings: discussion of canon slavery and some potentially disturbing imagery that i can't really formulate specific warnings for

In the years she's spent away from her clan, she has heard anger described in Common as 'seeing red'. The clan had a similar phrase in 'blood-blinded', though she'd never had occasion to use it; Merrill has felt anger before, but never for long, and never clouding her thoughts as guilt or determination have.

Watching a Magister order a  _ hero of elves _ like one of his many slaves, Merrill  _ sees red. _ She sits across from him in a body not her own, discusses trading the mages like cattle, but a fury boils within her so profound she can barely string words together.

She will never know the pain of Fenris' life, will never truly understand the depths of depravity that gave him his rage, but she understands better, now, the way he couldn't contain it; the way it bubbled and spat, scalding those around him to match the lines burned into his skin. 

She understands, she thinks, being ready to let it consume you, so long as he is burned down with you.

Alexius speaks to her like an exotic pet, and her body responds in kind, smiling though it feels like dragging razors through her lips (like sewing needles,  _ dangerous thing _ ). She will play girl as long as she has to, to save them, use all the bloodied diplomacy Josephine could give her; maybe she'll take a trick from Isabela, play pet well enough to get him alone and— 

Someone shuffles behind her, gait labored. As she stands, her mind runs through possibilities: a blood slave, perhaps, body puppeted by Alexius' will. Or a slave of a different kind, body pushed past its breaking point for the Magister's convenience. But who she turns to meet is Alexius' son, his pallor truly sickly now, and in the time she recognizes him he collapses forward onto her. Merrill is slight, and the man in decorative but substantial armor, yet she barely struggles to catch and support him.

He pants out an apology on labored breath, but not before his hand tucks something into the gap of her armor. Before she can give more than a questioning look, his father rushes over, the Magister's smooth mask broken. He frantically ends their meeting, ordering Fiona and the other mages to attend his son with an unthinking ease born of decades of practice.

And Merrill is left with the dashed coals of her rage, Fiona's dalish farewell, and the folded corner of a crisp parchment digging into her skin.

"Shit," Varric curses, kicking dust; "I knew they were desperate but…  _ Shit! _ " Cassandra groans in something like agreement, The Iron Bull is entering the Tavern with something sharp in his eye, and Solas.

Solas is looking at her with something like pity, but more understanding. " _ Da _ —Merrill," he corrects, quiet as Bull and Cassandra converse; "it is painful to see one of the People reduced so, I know. But through the Inquisition, we will…" He trails off as she reaches into her armor, pulling out the note.

Unfolding it, she reads aloud: "Come to the Chantry. You are in danger…  _ Dar'eth Shiral _ ," the phrase she says at barely a whisper, before shoving the note back into her armor and heading for the door without another word.

"Hey, hey! Daisy," Varric calls after her, grabbing her arm; "we don't go running into traps, remember? Leave that to Hawke." His words are light but his tone is not.

He doesn't understand, of course he doesn't, he couldn't, but the embers of her anger flare: " _ Fenedhis lasa!  _ It isn't a trap: she  _ remembers! _ "

Cassandra comes into view then, strangely hesitant; "On what do you base this? The…  _ former _ Grand Enchanter's lack of recognition was clear." 

"Fiona doesn't speak the elven language; look," she pulls out the message again, shoving it at the only other who can read it; "she's spelt it like Common, and you wouldn't use that farewell here.  _ But— _ "

"—But she'd heard it before," Solas finishes, handing the note back to her, "from you, in Val Royeaux."

"Exactly! Had she only  _ said _ it, it might be coincidence, but to say it and write it, both times directed at me: it  _ must _ mean she remembers something, and I  _ have _ to meet with her."

The older elf inclines his head; "Perhaps. Or perhaps it is the Tevinters who remember, using it to add credence to the lure," before she has time to deflate, or this newfound anger has time to rise, he continues: "in either case, we cannot afford to ignore the message. If it is a trap, best to meet it in daylight."

"And if it  _ isn't," _ she contradicts with a tight smile, "it wouldn't do to keep them waiting."

Cassandra seems more eager at the possibility of fighting off a Tevinter ambush than aiding the mages, but her agreeing gets Varric to agree "since I'm outnumbered," (Merrill knows he'd go against the whole Inquisition to follow her, but she doesn't feel the need to point it out).

She'd thought Bull would be the most vocally against it, but if anything he seems kind of excited, joking that he's "always wanted to ambush an ambush!"

Walking through the village again on their way, Merrill tries to notice things she hadn't. People still stare and whisper and shy away, so she tries to piece together what kind of person is doing which. The villagers talk openly about them with each other, some bellowing across the square about "twice-blighted mages". Those she can identify as circle mages (most stick out, still in their circle robes and wielding staffs, but some have traded in for simple cotton clothes) stick to whispering, gesturing excitedly to their fellows or ducking their heads when she sees them. But there is a third group, those who just stare, quiet and alone, and she can't find anything in their clothing that links them aside from it all looking clean.

Figuring she'll take advantage of the basically-spy they've brought, she asks The Iron Bull what he makes of them:

"That'd be the Vint's," he answers readily, rolling his massive shoulders, "they never were willing to get dirty for their covers." He tilts his head then, pausing; "Well, most of 'em weren't. Still: good eyes, Boss." One of his hands pats her on the back, and where she was expecting one of Aveline's overzealous "pats" that send her stumbling, The Bull's obvious strength is controlled. She takes a second to wonder just how long he's been in the South, that he's so adjusted to non-qunari.

The winding grassy path to the Chantry doesn't show any obvious signs of danger; Merrill knows looks can be deceiving, but she thinks Varric would tell her if he spotted a tripwire or other traps. On their way, the young mage who'd met them at the gate stops her; "Is what you said true? Were you really going to ally with us, with the mages?"

It feels good not to hesitate or dance around her answers; "Yes, and we're still hoping to," Cassandra grumbles behind her, but Merrill just smiles; "I know you've allied with Tevinter, but…"

The mage's face contorts in anger, looking out of place on his young face, "Pah! Tevinter doesn't make allies, certainly not of  _ us _ . I for one'd take an elven Inquisition over these  _ slavers _ any day." Big words, but he ducks his head after saying them, ears twitching to hear if anyone noticed.

Her heart breaks for him, for all these people forced to choose between war and submission. For all her clan's faults, they protected each other, were free from Templars and Tevinters, and free to leave as she did. They were  _ free _ .

_ And all they had to do was run at the first sign of trouble, never plant roots, never reach out to the alienages, their  _ People, _ starving and suffering close by. The freedom of survival, at any cost. _

She pushes that into the pile of 'things to think about After', and ignores how it's already near-overflow. Taking a step away from her non-elf companions, she tries to ask her next question quietly: "The Inquisition can't shelter you all right away, but… Have they treated anyone poorly? Anyone in immediate danger?"

He huffs what could be a laugh, eyes still flitting around nervously; "They haven't brought out the shackles, if that's what you mean. Most of the Tranquil are gone, though, I…" his breath shakes, voice so  _ young; _ "I try not to think about what they've done with them."

Almost of their own volition, her hands reach out to clasp his shoulders. Their eyes connect briefly before he looks down, and she sucks through her teeth at the fear and tears gathered there. In a gesture she remembers from Marethari, and in earlier wisps of memory from her mother, Merrill presses their foreheads together.

" _ Manaan'Dian'el, da'len," _ she breaths, knowing he won't understand but hoping he will, in the same way he might not understand why he leans into the gesture, but he does.

Letting go, she steps back and observes him: he still seems nervous, or at least uncertain, but Merrill thinks the dalish gesture settled him some. People in cities touch much less than the Dalish, she knows; she'd asked Isabela, who'd said: "touch is... Intimate, like sex, so the Chantry says it should be 'similarly secret and selective'." 

Merrill is perhaps more 'selective' with touch than the rest of her clan was, but she still knows they  _ need  _ it, same as food and water. The young man—Lysas, he says—excuses himself, something like hope in his voice, and they continue on to the Chantry. Sounds of battle quickly become audible through its double doors, but the Chantry Sisters feet away look nonplussed.

A glance at Solas's ears tells her he hears it as well, but The Iron Bull also seems to hear it, muscles visibly tense. Without any discussion or prayer, Merrill reaches both hands up to pull the doors open. She wouldn't know what exactly to pray  _ for _ , anyway.

Now in her line of sight, she sees the mark spitting green in her left hand; if she focuses, she can feel it. Then the doors are open, and another tear in the Veil greets her, the corrupted demons it dragged out engaging two mages in battle.

From the outside, the distortions of time are even clearer: sluggish shades speed across the floor, the sudden transport of a Terror slows as if for study. 

Not that she stays on the outside for long; one of the battling mages, a tall human in elaborate silk robes, calls (strangely cheerfully) for their help. His magic feels similar to her own entropy, but fire and lighting rain down from his staff as he twirls like a dancer. The other mage wields the elements in standard Circle robes, fighting in the rarer close-quarters style, the shades and wraiths around them obscuring their identity. What is clear is that, though they are both skilled mages, against endless waves of demons they are outmanned.

Terror is snagged by ensnaring vines as Merrill goes to their aid, getting trapped mid-transport (an event that is very painful, judging by the layered scream it lets out). The Iron Bull's axe crushes its head, and its life-force returns to the Fade—or most of it does, some instead being siphoned off by Flashy Mage, who puts that energy into a fireball that blasts through the wraiths surrounding his comrade.

No longer surrounded, the other mage can focus on the two shades in front of them—and they do. Shouting words lost to the clang of battle, they coat their staff in frost, and one shade is forced back by a wall of ice in the same motion the second is stabbed through its core; instead of pulling the staff blade out to attack again, they hold it their, and the shade's amorphous form solidifies from the chest out. When they finally do pull back, it falls like a vase to the floor, shattering at their feet. 

Cassandra and Solas clear the straggling shades, but past experience has shown that more eager spirits peering through the Veil will be sucked through before the rift is closed; and sure enough, another clawed hand is reaching through it as soon as the last shade falls. Merrill, Bull and Flashy Mage form a unit of sorts, the human corralling demons with horror and lightning for her to ensnare, leaving them weak and trapped for The Iron Bull to finish off. Varric and Bianca control the battle from the sidelines, picking off wraiths and humming Hawke's favorite drinking song. A two-person unit of their own, Solas and the Seeker make quick work of the towering Terrors, both quick to react and adapt. 

And flashing between all of them is the unknown mage; their staff blocking a taloned swipe made for Varric, their firestorm quelling any resistance to Merrill's ensnaring, and their healing aura washing over her as she pools her remaining energy into pulling the rift closed.

Turning to thank her healer, sweat and gratitude warm on her lips, she's met with the welcome surprise of Grand Enchanter Fiona. Shiny and panting from the exertion of battle, the Enchanter looks the most alive Merrill's seen her. Finding herself at a rare loss for words, she nods (deep enough to be a bow) and hopes her thanks are understood.

Fiona inclines her head, though Merrill only sees it for a moment before she's obscured by Flashy Mage. He steps in front of her, pinning her with an inquisitive look: "Fascinating… How does that work, exactly?" The impulse is there, but Merrill doesn't jump to explain. "You don't even know, do you? You just wiggle your fingers and—"

"I don't think you introduced yourself!" She interrupts, smiling that wide smile that Fenris hated (it scared him, her angry smile, called him to a time he only remembers for the agony of it. When he'd finally shared it, grumbling into a half-empty pint, she'd shared too, her memories of slaps and bites and  _ can't you just be normal _ . He wasn't scared, after; he understands the baring of teeth).

This mage may have fought alongside her, alongside Fiona, but he is Tevinter, accent every bit as high-born as  _ Magister _ Alexius; she hasn't even shared all her theories of the mark and its origins with  _ Solas _ , the person she's come closest to trusting. A  _ shemlen _ from Tevinter, so quick to assume her ignorance? Giving him a chance is only fair after his help, but her kindness isn't infinite.

"Ah, getting ahead of myself again, I see: Dorian of House Pavus, most recently of Minrathous. How do you do?" The words are practiced, but that sly quality remains, like an inside joke she isn't a part of. It's not the same fake interest Alexius showed; it  _ is _ fake, his manners exaggerated, but this Dorian seems to  _ want _ her to notice it. Maybe it really is some joke he's making.

"I can safely say I've been better; I'm Merrill, though you might already know that." She still sticks out a hand, and Dorian's eyes widen in some sort of surprise, his fake smile flickering as he grabs and shakes it.

"Your reputation does precede you, Lady Merrill," she drops her hand first and he lets go, stepping back and clapping his own hands together: "right, now that's out of the way: onto business!"

"I agree," Fiona joins, her serious tone a stark contrast; "if we are to stop this madness, we must be upfront: I am ally to Alexius in name only. We accepted his offer to keep the free mages safe from Templar attacks, but I and a trusted team have been investigating his operations, subverting what we can."

The revelation only sparks more questions; her conversation with Lysas still fresh in her mind, Merrill has to ask: "The Tranquil. Do you know what they're doing with them?"

Fiona's face darkens, regret muddying her determination. "Yes, we know; when the first disappeared, we thought he'd left with those who refused conscription, but by the second… He was killing them, using their  _ skulls, _ " she spits it like a curse, and it puts a curse's weight in Merrill's heart; "once we learned, we coordinated the 'disappearance' of the rest. They numbered less than twenty among us; Alexius is hardly a caring enough  _ ally _ to keep close count." 'Ally' is curse-heavy too, yet her care for her people lightens something in Merrill; there's deep comfort in seeing someone else not just  _ trying _ to help, but succeeding.

The first of her companions to speak up is The Iron Bull, wearing a small frown; "There's still a Tranquil staying in the tavern; Clarence, I think." Merrill highly doubts he's actually unsure of the name.

"He wanted to stay." 

Bull raises an eyebrow; "I thought Tranquil didn't want anything."

Fiona stands tall, shorter than him by measure but no smaller in stature. "We explained the danger, and he expressed a… _Preference_ for 'being useful' here. We won't refuse him, not _any_ of them, what little choice they have left." This point she holds with absolute conviction.

The Iron Bull seems to concede to that, but his question seems to have cleared the way for the people with her to speak their minds; Cassandra is next to question. "Why did you not contact the Inquisition? You had sought to ally with us before—"

Dorian interrupts with a snort; "And Alexius manipulated time itself to subvert it. I have no doubt of Fiona and her agents' abilities," here he inclines his head to her dramatically enough to be a bow, a gesture she only responds to with one eyebrow, "but engineering a way to combat time magic on the off-chance a rogue arm of the Chantry decides to help seems a poor use of them." He pauses, then adds with a smile, "Not that we aren't glad you deigned to join us! I for one am very supportive of telling the Southern Chantry to screw itself; it's something of a national pastime."

Which is decidedly  _ not _ the part she's concerned with. Solas voices it before she can: "Time magic is considered purely theoretical; if true, this is fascinating… And incredibly dangerous."

"The rift you closed here: you saw how it twisted time around itself, sped some things up and slowed others down? If we don't stop Alexius, soon others will appear, further and further from Redcliffe. This magic is unraveling the very fabric of time, and it won't be long before it takes the world with it."

His words echo through the empty Chantry like prophecy.

Merrill, never one for predetermined fates, is the first to break the silence: "It's spread to Redcliffe's outer walls already so I don't doubt it, but how did  _ you _ learn about it?"

He seems almost frustrated by the question; "I helped develop this magic. When I was still Alexius' apprentice, it  _ was _ pure—"

"—You  _ worked _ for him?" She looks instantly to Fiona for any sign of surprise, but all she sees is the same determination.

"The pretty ones are always the worst," The Bull grumbles behind her.

The 'pretty one' in question sighs; "Alexius was my mentor,  _ was  _ being the operative word. When I left his tutelage, several years ago I might add, our theory was sound, but still just that: theory. We could never get it to work." He shifts his weight, raising a hand to his chin; "What I don't understand is why he's doing it? Not to offend, Fiona, but your people's servitude doesn't seem quite worth it."

As Dorian speaks, Merrill's ears twitch to hear footsteps, the sound of a shuffling gait echoing nearby. And then there in front of her stands Alexius' son; “He didn’t do it for them.”

The smile that spreads across Dorian’s face this time is wide, relaxed, and infinitely more real than what he’d been wearing. Even as he expresses his concern for Felix’s delay, everything about his body screams relief (to the point she can swear to feeling it in his magic, a bright spot of electric joy). If anything could solidify Merrill’s belief that he isn’t working with Alexius, it's this: no one would be that worried for a friend spending time with an ally.

After reassuring his countryman, Felix looks directly to her. His gaze is so sharp she thinks anyone would have trouble holding it. “My father’s joined a cult. Tevinter supremacists. They call themselves “the Venatori”. Whatever he’s done for them, he’s done it to get to you.”

Trying to push down her reaction to  _ that _ is like bailing a ship with her hands, but she does it because she has to. When that’s done, there isn’t enough space in her head or her mouth for anything other than  _ why? _

Asking as much triggers a dazing back-and-forth from the two Tevinters, each addition (The Temple of Sacred Ashes, the rifts, holes in time and sky) getting her no closer to an answer and much closer to losing her fragile hold on stability.

Then Dorian leaves to avoid detection, Fiona and Felix return to the castle to avoid suspicion, and Merrill is left in a scorched and cavernous Chantry, clenching her fists to avoid falling apart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> elvish translations:  
>  _Dar'eth Shiral_ : go safely on your journey, safe journey; a formal farewell  
>  _Fenedhis lasa_ : version of the common curse _fenedhis_ (lit. "Wolf Cock", use as a curse is similar to "Shit," "Fuck," or "God Damn"); merrill is basically telling varric to "give a shit"  
>  _Manaan'Dian'el_ : (your) sea is overfull/overflowing. A Dalish saying roughly meaning your suffering is too great, or you have suffered too much/too many things
> 
> (again i'd like to thank Project Elvhen, that's their translation of fenedhis and it Does make me laugh imagining solas trying to keep a straight face hearing it)  
> we did it! we got there we got to the actual kick-off point for IHW, this time giving agency to fiona! how the writers could look at her backstory and say "yes, we should make her willingly submit herself and hundreds of her people to slavery" i never want to know,,,, im getting angry just thinking abt it lets move on  
> finally got dorian! all of the companions have been introduced! that means canon dialogue will be Much rarer from now on (hopefully i changed it enough to be bearable). but love this bitch! in a different meeting, merrill would be a Lot more excited to meet him and it would be dorian hesitating, but Alexius' treatment of Fiona has triggered Some Stuff (bringing up fenris was Very intentional) and she is also just, so fucking overstimulated she needs to lay down  
> the next chapter will be a Lot of planning, a little decompression, and then right back into the fire; i bring this up instead of doing my normal teaser because there will be Some New Stuff after next chapter and I cannot restrain myself from saying ISABELA. the duct tape goes back over my mouth now no more spoilers
> 
> any thoughts on Fiona's role? on how merrill's gonna keep her promise to Cole to deal with the templars? on me and the DA universe conspiring to keep Merrill constantly near-breakdown? comment them!

**Author's Note:**

> merrill playlist: [spotify link](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0zcej7y5QGi6HkYwN5fNTO?si=OB-NPKXITOqwzElQ-DGudw)


End file.
